


Who we are in the shadows

by Quicksilvermaid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aural Voyeurism, Auror Harry Potter, Bigotry & Prejudice, Biting, Bonding, Brief Claustrophobia, Case Fic, Claiming, Comeplay, Creature Fic, Domestic, Dubious Consent, Edging, Emotional Growth, Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, H/D Erised 2019, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jealousy, Lies, Loyalty, Loyalty Bond, M/M, Marking, Masturbation, Minor Draco Malfoy/Original Male Character(s), Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Murder, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Past Child Death, Past minor character death, Poison, Possessive Behavior, References to Auror Brutality, Rough Sex, Scenting, Secret Identity, Secrets, Self-Acceptance, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Stabbing, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wall Sex, Werewolf Harry, Werewolves, child trafficking, internalized prejudice, prejudice against werewolves, sex without lube, wanking, werewolf attack, werewolf instincts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 99,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21758962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quicksilvermaid/pseuds/Quicksilvermaid
Summary: What happens when you’re forced to become the very thing you despise?Ex-Auror Harry Potter, tossed out of the Ministry for something he had no control over, has been looking for a way back to his former life. When he comes across Draco Malfoy in the criminal underbelly of Wizarding London and in need of protection, Harry figures bringing him in to face the Ministry's justice is his ticket back to everything he's lost.But nothing is exactly as it seems. Not even Harry himself. And as he gets drawn further and further into Malfoy's world of honour and deception he finds himself questioning everything he thought he knew—about his childhood nemesis, the Ministry job he misses so much, and most of all, about himself.What happens when you’re forced to see that you were wrong?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 869
Kudos: 3756
Collections: H/D Erised 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MarchnoGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarchnoGirl/gifts).



> A million thanks to the wranglers and wonderful friends who helped me in so many ways to bring this monster to life. I couldn't have done it without you <3
> 
> Gifted after the fact to Ale, who is the most beautiful, caring supportive fandom friend and who held this fic in hands so full of love and support. I can't thank you enough ❤️

Harry walks into his boss's shitty little office with Hermione's pleas from the night before still ringing in his ears. His hip is pissing him off. It's hurting him more than usual today; the pain stabs through him with every step. 

He knows taking another job so soon is stupid, but what is he supposed to do? He'd tried sitting around feeling sorry for himself. Five months, a half-destroyed house, and a drinking problem later, he'd decided that probably wasn't the best way to deal with the bullshit that his life had become. If not for the fact that his metabolism is so high and he has that freaky healing thing going on, he probably wouldn't have come out of his spiral at all. His lack of healthy coping skills had been one of Hermione's arguments the night before. Very old arguments. Which she'd given him repeatedly since he signed up to work for PROtego.

' _Harry, you know this job isn't good for you._ ' ' _Harry, we can find another way._ ' ' _Harry, we can make people_ change.' Bullshit, bullshit, _bullshit_.

He's pulled out of his thoughts as he picks up the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway. A minute later the door opens. A grim-faced man walks into the dingy room, slaps a file down in front of him and takes a seat opposite Harry at his battered desk.

'Archer,' Harry says, lifting his chin slightly. Archer hates when Harry challenges him. Even subtly. So he makes sure he does it all the time. Man's a bully. Harry may have fallen far enough that he has to work for scum like this, but that doesn't mean he has to respect him.

Archer narrows his eyes at Harry, looking him up and down. 'You look like shit, Hunter,' he says with a grimace. 'Are you up to taking on another case? Wasn't expecting you back for another week.'

Harry shrugs, forcing a cocky grin onto his face. 'It was worse than it looked. I'm fine. What's next?'

Archer raises an eyebrow at him, and Harry can sense the tension in his body, smell it in the air.  
'You took a _Reducto_ to the chest at close range. You shouldn't even be able to stand.'

Harry leans back, knowing he needs to sell it. Merlin, but he hates the lie his life has become. Archer is right though. He _shouldn't_ be able to stand. Harry winces with pain he doesn't feel. The wounds had healed within a day. Hurt like a bitch, but healed. Not that he can tell Archer just how that had come about. Not that he can let anyone find out.

Instead he lets his grin broaden and take on a knowing edge. He lets some of the darkness that is always so close to the surface nowadays come into his face. 'I know all sorts of interesting people, Archer. They supply me with all sorts of interesting things.' Harry touches his ribs through his thin, cotton shirt as though they pain him. 'You know that. It's part of why you hire me.'

The tension leaves Archer's body and he leans back, running a hand over his short-cropped hair. 'Right. Sure.' He flicks the file towards Harry. 

Harry reaches out, forcing himself to move slowly—or what feels slow to him but will look normal to Archer. 

Act normal. Look normal. Be normal. That's his mantra now. He's never been less normal.

Harry opens the file. It's the fifth he's received since he started at PROtego a few months ago. This one is like all the others. A headshot, the particulars of the person he's assigned to, and a description of what they've come to PROtego looking for. Harry scans it quickly.

The man in the image has a look of money about him. He's dark-haired, with strong, cruel-looking features and an arrogant gaze. He sneers out of the photo and Harry immediately knows his type. He's the sort of man Harry used to love being able to pull down a peg or three when he was Senior Auror. There's something about this sort of self-assured entitlement that just grates on him. Always has.

Harry returns his attention to the file. Darius Markwell is thirty-six, most recently from France, and is looking for personal protection for approximately five weeks while he conducts business in London.

Harry flips the folder shut and looks across at Archer. 'Five weeks? Full time?' 

He tries to ignore the immediate spike of anxiety that thought gives him. The longest job he's taken so far is three weeks and he'd timed the dates carefully for that one. _Five weeks_. The thought of being away, cut off, for five weeks makes the anxiety rise higher. His heart beats harder in his chest and he feels something shrink inside him, whimpering faintly. He needs to ground himself more frequently than that. Needs to be around his… people.

Harry grits his teeth at how much he hates that weakness in himself. He used to be totally self-sufficient. Used to run a rigid schedule, run a whole bloody Auror team. And look at him now. _Pathetic_.

'Negotiable?' he asks.

Archer shrugs. 'Everything's negotiable,' he says, voice flat. The subtext is clear. _Your job here is negotiable, if you don't want to take what's offered._

Archer glances at his watch and then back at Harry. 'He'll be here in five minutes. Are you interested?'

Harry looks at the manila folder on the desk in front of him. He feels an itch under his skin—the same itch that he gets whenever he contemplates sitting inside Grimmauld Place with nothing to occupy his mind or his body. It makes him think of booze and darkness. If he doesn't take the job, he'll piss Archer off. And if he pisses Archer off, he might not get another job. He'll figure something out. Five weeks can be managed. He has his potion for when the time comes, after all.

'Sure,' he says, ignoring the Hermione in the back of his mind, telling him this is a bad idea.

Archer nods and stands, the chair scraping on the ground with a screech that puts Harry's teeth on edge. 'I'll meet you in the briefing room,' Archer says. He reaches across the table and collects the folder before he turns and exits the room. 

Harry pushes to his feet with a wince, not faked this time. Fucking hip. He follows Archer out, turning the opposite direction and making his way down the dingy corridor to the pokey little space that has the dubious honour of being called a briefing room. He leans against the wall opposite the door, taking the weight off his leg.

It's barely a minute before Archer's coming back and Harry hears a second set of footsteps beside him. They're brisk. Purposeful. It must be Markwell. His shoes click on the tiles. They sound expensive. He's probably an entitled prat.

Harry forces himself to focus on his job. If he's scowling at the door when the bloke walks in, he isn't exactly going to make the right impression, is he? Hermione's voice echoes in his mind, _I know it's harder now, Harry. I know you're angry all the time. But you have to_ try.

He spends every second of every damned day trying.

The door opens a second later and Markwell walks through, glancing dismissively around with barely concealed contempt. Harry's instinctive dislike of him deepens and solidifies at that look. He knows the company he works for now is one he probably would have raided as an Auror, but seeing this wanker put it down is a step too far. He feels a strange sort of protectiveness. This place is his. It's his territory and if this tosser wants help, he needs to kill his attitude.

Harry grits his teeth, but he keeps his smile in place as he straightens. He has to work not to show that he's favouring his hip. Something in Markwell's posture makes Harry think of a predator sizing up prey. He has a feeling this is not a man to show weakness to. He pushes aside the grinding agony. If only that wound would heal the same miraculous way all his others do now. 

Harry lets his familiar bitterness go as he watches Markwell's gaze flick over him. His eyes linger for a fraction of a second on the bulge of Harry's arms, the broadness of his chest, the stubble he hadn't bothered to shave that morning. Harry uses a Glamour to do his job. Not a lot. Just enough to hide his scar, to change his eyes from green to a more common brown and to modify his features so that he isn't him anymore. Merlin forbid anyone find out just how low their Chosen One has sunk.

Markwell likes what he sees. It's incredibly subtle—if Harry's senses weren't so razor sharp, he would have completely missed it—but the way he's wired now, Markwell may as well have asked him for a fuck. Harry wants to curl his lip at the man, deride him for being into the help.

Instead he extends a hand. 

'Hunter James,' he says.

Markwell glances at Harry's gesture and hesitates for a moment before he steps forward, extending his own hand. Harry wants to tell him to go fuck himself at the hesitation. He can't check Harry out one second and consider himself too good to shake hands the next. 

'Darius Markwell,' he says, his voice smooth and clipped. Something about it tugs at Harry's memory, burrowing inside him.

Their hands clasp and Harry can feel Markwell's pulse under his skin. He feels a strange impulse to linger there, just for a second, but he shakes it off, dropping his hand and taking a seat.

Markwell turns to Archer with a cursory word of thanks that is clearly a dismissal.

Archer stiffens imperceptibly but nods. 'A pleasure doing business with you, Mr Markwell.'

Markwell waits until Archer has left the room, the door clicking shut behind him before he sits opposite Harry, crossing his arms over what is clearly an expensive black suit. Harry isn't surprised to see that it's Muggle. There are many things that haven't changed since the war, but one thing that has is the wide-scale adoption of Muggle clothing. Wizarding robes are the exception, rather than the norm, now.

'So, "Hunter", is it?' Markwell says, condescension in his tone as his gaze flicks over Harry again, this time in a look that seems to consider him to be more brawn than brains. Harry ignores his tone and the annoyance it stirs in him as he catches Markwell's scent. It's warm, just a hint of spice to it, layered over something darker. Something heady. 

He frowns slightly, leaning forward and flaring his nostrils subtly. Act normal. Be normal. He gets another breath of it and his frown deepens. There's something familiar about the way the man in front of him smells. Something that tugs at the edges of his memory, the same way his voice had.

Markwell's fingers snap in front of his face and Harry has to contain the growl that wants to rise in his throat. He feels his annoyance rise, at himself this time. He hates it when he has reactions like that—like an _animal_.

'Are you a half-wit, Hunter?' Markwell asks, the derision clear in his voice as his lip curls. 'If you're going to be daydreaming in the middle of a job, you're hardly going to be of any use to me.'

Harry feels his annoyance flare into the anger that's always so close to the surface now.  
'I won't daydream in the middle of anything,' he says, wanting to tell this posh wanker that he's got a hundred missions under his belt, that the work he does for PROtego is so far below his pay grade that it's laughable that it's the only relevant work he can get now. He bites his tongue. Patience is hard, especially now, especially in front of this prat, but he needs to keep his temper. Act normal. Be normal.

Markwell makes a dubious sound, looking down his nose at Harry in a way that tugs at his memory. He cocks his head to one side, trying to let the thought unravel. But Markwell speaks before he can catch the tail of it.

'If you think you're capable of doing this job, then I will require absolute discretion while I complete my business in London,' he says. 'One of the reasons I work with your company, such as it is, is that I know I will have no questions asked of me, or tales told of me afterwards. I trust that remains true?'

Harry feels like telling this twat in his over-priced suit to stick his job up his arse. He's clearly going to be a nightmare to deal with. Harry barely knows the bloke and his motivation to do his job and keep the guy alive is dropping fast.

He purses his lips and just nods in response, forcing himself to let the words flow over him. He breathes in deeply and focuses on the hint of familiarity that interests him far more than the posturing going on in front of him. He lets the connections form in his brain. It's a different place now, his brain. It sees the world through sights and smells and sounds in a way that's so vibrant it's sometimes overwhelming.

It connects things from the past to things from the present in a way that's often jarring, sending him flashing into memories he'd long forgotten. A few months ago he'd vomited in Molly's toilet after he'd got a hint of scent from a cleaner Aunt Petunia had scrubbed him down with one time when he'd pissed himself. One time when he'd been locked in for so long he'd had no choice.

'I will require you to lodge with me for the duration of my business in London,' Markwell says, eyes sharp as he watches Harry. Harry feels strangely on show, as though Markwell is seeing beneath the surface of him, and he takes another deep breath as he tries to focus back on the conversation, on his role. Be normal. There's no way this guy could know anything about him. He's not one of the thirsty horde that had camped outside Harry's house for weeks after he'd left the Ministry, begging for any scrap of information about him, ready to tear him to pieces to get it.

No, Markwell is a client and Harry is a random choice—one of ten employees—and Archer just happened to pick him. That's all.

His attempt to focus comes too late. His instincts have kept hunting and his senses are filled with the smell of the man across the table from him. The vague hint of familiarity is digging its way through his mind, patterns forming and fading, until finally something connects and memories begin to streak through his brain. Flying. Potions. Feasts. School robes. Lying helpless on the ground as a foot smashes into his face. The cut of a curse and the sharp tang of blood in the air—

Harry's eyes fly wide and he feels anger burn into life as a name flashes into his consciousness. Every single behaviour he's just seen exhibited clicks into place and he feels his anger turn to fury.

' _Malfoy,_ ' he growls, leaning forward, fingers gripping the table.

Markwell's eyes widen in shock. He looks, for an instant, as though Harry has punched him in the guts. His expression immediately changes to a glare, eyes narrowed in suspicion and what looks like anger. 

For a moment, Harry second guesses himself. The man in front of him looks nothing like Malfoy, but now that the connection has been made, it's all he can think of. He knows that scent. Some part of his brain remembers it faintly. Remembers it enough, now, that he has no doubt. Malfoy is sitting in front of him, glamoured as someone else.

'Who the fuck are you?' Malfoy demands coldly, his voice sounding subtly familiar and subtly wrong.

Harry sees Malfoy's hand drop to his wand, but he doesn't even think to grab his own. That's never his first reaction anymore. His fingers flex against the table and he remembers the feeling of claws erupting through his skin. Strange how so many years of training can be overridden by foreign instincts so quickly.

His anger churns and grows at this thought and Harry glares at Malfoy as he lets the heat fill him. The rage in him is only partly about Malfoy, he's just what's triggered it, this time. There's always something in him, now, that wants to fight and tear and rend, and it's so hard to contain it all the time. 

Harry glances at Malfoy's grip on his wand and grins savagely at the very thought that Malfoy might try something with him. It's this that makes him decide to drop his own glamour. He's itchy under his skin. Spoiling for another fight. He always is nowadays. He didn't get to take down the bastard that hit him with the _Reducto_ , and now here's Malfoy, out of nowhere after all these years. And his hand is on his wand.

Harry clenches one fist and the door locks with an audible click. Malfoy shoves to his feet and has his wand pointing at Harry within a second. He's still not fast enough that Harry couldn't have stopped him with ease. But he doesn't. No matter how much his anger drives him. _Be normal_. He forces himself to think of what this means, to see Malfoy in front of him; of what he should do with that. He forces the creature inside him to _think_. Harry sits back, letting his smile morph into a provocative smirk as he lets the glamour slide from his features. 

He knows what Malfoy is seeing. His hair is losing its mousy brownness, reverting to the black tangle he sees every morning in the mirror. His eyes are bright green again, no longer hidden behind the glasses he has no need for anymore.

It's not until the scar flashes back into view that Malfoy seems to believe what's in front of his eyes. His mouth drops open, his grip slackening on his wand.

'Potter,' Malfoy breathes. 'What the fuck?'

Emotions flicker across Malfoy's face too quick to follow. Harry catches a calculating gleam in his eye last of all, before his face smooths.

'I could ask you the same,' Harry says, laying his arm across the back of the chair next to him, the very picture of nonchalance. He pushes the anger down again, redirecting it, forcing himself to think this through. An idea occurs to him, possibilities threading themselves together so quickly that it happens between one breath and the next. If he plays this right, Malfoy could be his ticket back to everything he's missing.

'Drop yours too,' Harry says, letting some of his former authority bleed into his voice. He'd been a legend in the Ministry. There is nothing he won't do to get back there.

Malfoy hesitates for just a moment and that look of calculation flashes back onto his face. Harry can hear his heartbeat hammering through his chest, though on the surface Malfoy looks calm again, all outward signs of his shock gone. 

Then Malfoy flicks his wand and Harry feels wards go up around them, prickling against his skin. Malfoy gestures again and his glamour disappears. Harry clenches his teeth to contain the surge of emotion that seeing Malfoy's face creates in him. The anger rushes back to the forefront, hot and vicious and Harry wants to slam Malfoy into a wall and demand to know what _the fuck_ he thinks he's playing at. 

His eyes move over Malfoy and he forces himself to take in the details, to catalogue them, letting his training take over, making sure the Pensieve memory will be sharp, if he ever has to provide it. 

Malfoy hasn't changed a lot in the past ten years. The last time Harry had seen him in person had been at the hearing when he was released from Azkaban. He'd served a four-year sentence and had been all over the papers after his release. And then, a few weeks later, he'd just disappeared.

His photo had been on the Criminals at Large board in the Auror Wing for years after that, until he'd finally been declared a cold case. Harry had had to look into that sneering, arrogant fucking face every day for _years_. He clenches his fists at the thought of how much everyone—him included—had wanted to bag Malfoy for breaking his parole; had wanted to slam him back in Azkaban, for good this time. 

He looks older now, of course, but older in a way that means he's grown into his angles and sharp edges. His hair is buzzed short at the sides and left loose and tousled on top. Harry lets his eyes flick down, noting that Malfoy's body hadn't changed when he'd dropped the glamour. He's still slim and tall, lean and strong under his designer clothes. He looks good. Harry feels a particular kind of disgust at himself for that thought. 

He realises Malfoy is taking him in too, when the silence stretches too long between them.

'Where the fuck have you been?' Harry demands, tempted to just summon the Aurors here and now. But the thought of having to face anyone from his former office—of having them know just how low he's sunk—stays his hand. He needs to do this right. If he can deliver Malfoy to them, with all of his backstory, they'll have to overlook his… affliction. Surely.

Malfoy cocks an eyebrow, pursing his lips. 'That's none of your business, Potter. Unless you have a warrant for my arrest?' His face makes it very clear he's aware Harry has no such thing. 

'My infraction has exceeded the ten year convictions limit,' Malfoy continues. 'You have no legal right to detain me.' The sour hint of stress in the air is the only thing that tells Harry how concerned Malfoy is by his presence.

Harry bares his teeth slightly in response. He can't let that slide. 'Your "infraction" was jumping parole and disappearing off the face of the fucking planet. I'm sure the Auror office would still be very interested to see you, Malfoy. I'm sure they'd have a whole list of questions to ask you about just what the hell you've been doing since you bailed.'

Malfoy's gaze sharpens and he leans forward slightly. ' _They_ would, would they? What are you doing here? Since when do you work private security?' The disdain is back in his voice, full force. He looks Harry up and down. 'Are you here by choice? What the fuck made you quit the Ministry to take a dodgy job in a shitshow organisation like this?'

Harry forces himself not to react to the questions. They're the same ones the papers blew up with for months—still print every time he's seen outside of his house, which is rarely. _Harry Potter's Shock Break From Ministry Career_. _Is Harry Off his Rocker?_ _What's next for the Chosen One?_ _Harry Potter: From Department Head to Departed Recluse_. 

He feels a trickle of concern, for the first time, at the thought that Malfoy might tell someone what he does now, and then he'd have the papers breathing down his neck here too, ruining any chance he has to get out of his house, out of his own head. He forces himself to take a breath. He can manage this. He knows he can. He's hunting Malfoy, not the other way around.

Harry cocks an eyebrow and folds his arms as he deliberately mirrors Malfoy's tone. 'That's none of your business, Malfoy.'

Malfoy lets out a huff, so soft most people wouldn't have caught it. Harry's surprised to realise he's made Malfoy laugh. He narrows his eyes at the thought. Malfoy doesn't _laugh_ in his presence. He sneers and taunts and provokes. What the hell is he playing at?

He looks at Malfoy, mind racing as he thinks through the best way to talk him into giving Harry what he needs. It will have to be done slowly, he knows. Malfoy is a slippery bastard, clearly, and despite his rot about exceeding the ten year statute, Harry knows the Auror office will happily slap a dozen new charges on him the moment they see him. 

The thought tugs at him, that he could just bring Malfoy in now, Auror or not. Ron would happily take the case off his hands. But that would be equivalent to a citizen's arrest. It might get him a pat on the head and a 'good dog,' but it won't get him what he wants: full access back into the Ministry. No, he knows what he will need for that. He'll need to discover every single dodgy thing Malfoy has done in the past ten years, as well as just why the hell he's back in London now.

Malfoy is watching him, face impassive, and Harry thinks of a second consideration: the little matter of what Malfoy knows now, and who he might tell. He considers for a second casting an _Obliviate_ Malfoy's way, but knowing Malfoy he's probably got inbuilt Shield Charms in his clothes or some rubbish.

'What now?' Harry asks, wondering how Malfoy wants to play this, and how he will manage to talk Malfoy into an arrangement that will end with Harry sending him to Azkaban for good.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. 'What do you mean, "what now", Potter? You're clearly still as dense as you always were. Now, I walk out of here, change my glamour, find a new company for what I need, and we never see each other again.'

Malfoy says it in such a matter of fact tone that Harry gets a sudden insight into the way he must have lived for the past ten years. The way he's managed, somehow, to stay off every radar.

The idea that Malfoy will just disappear again stirs something deep within Harry's chest. He was on the case boards of the DMLE for years. There were bets about who would bring him in. It was one of the cases that had sat on Harry's unsolved pile throughout his nine years as Senior Auror, almost as though Malfoy were taunting him. The fact that he's eluded everyone for so long, only to pop up right in front of Harry's nose, is not something he can ignore. Even if there is a possibility Malfoy will out him, he can't let this opportunity slide. 

Malfoy's looking at him with incredulous suspicion and Harry wonders how the hell he's going to get Malfoy to agree to let him be his protection. Then an idea comes to him and it's so juvenile—so clearly transparent—that he thinks it just might work.

'Scared?' Harry asks, letting the challenge issue through every part of his body as he makes it clear how little regard he has for Malfoy's courage.

Malfoy's eyes darken and Harry hears his heartbeat skip. He frowns, his mouth a hard line. 'What are you, fucking twelve? I'm not scared, Potter,' he says. 'I'm prudent. Until a year ago you were the head of the organisation that put me in Azkaban. Putting my life in your hands is madness.'

'So, scared, then?' Harry says, leaning forward with a smirk. 'I have no power with the Ministry anymore.' He doesn't bother to hold back his bitterness as he thinks for a second just how true that is now. Every bridge he might have had is burned. The way they made him leave… he'd be damned if he ever went crawling back to them. He would come back at the head of one of the biggest cases in a decade, with Malfoy in chains, or he wouldn't go back at all.

Harry forces himself to focus on what's in front of him: Malfoy, and talking him into this arrangement so that Harry can keep an eye on him and figure out what he's been up to.

'Besides, like you said, your charges for skipping parole have passed the convictions limit. There's nothing the Ministry could do to you anyway.' Harry spreads his hands, looking Malfoy in the eye, taking in the faint tension around his mouth.

He decides to push it just a little bit further. 'I mean you no harm, Malfoy. We're grown men now, and anything that was in the past between us is dead and gone. Look, fresh start.'

Harry stands and reaches across the table, stretching his hand towards Malfoy, who eyes it with barely concealed amazement.

'Hi,' Harry says, the barest hint of sarcasm threaded through his voice. 'I'm Harry Potter - otherwise known as Hunter James because I have no interest in people finding out what I'm doing here.' He stresses the words 'no interest' and wonders again what he can do to make sure Malfoy doesn't blab. 

'I was an Auror for five years,' he continues, hand still stretched out in front of him. Malfoy's eyes haven't left it. 'And a Senior Auror for nine. I've been assigned to be your personal protection.'

Slowly, Malfoy looks up to meet Harry's eyes. He seems to be wrestling with something as he looks at Harry for a long moment. 

Then, to Harry's amazement, he tucks his wand inside his jacket and stretches out his own hand. It's warm, and his handshake is firm. Harry can't quite believe it worked and he has to bite back the smirk of triumph that wants to spread across his face.

'I'm Draco Malfoy,' he says, eyes not leaving Harry's, as though he's looking inside him, looking for any hint of deceit. 'Otherwise known as Darius Markwell. I'm in town for a while, the reason why is none of your business, and I need someone to assure my safety.' His tone is still full of scepticism, and he drops Harry's hand after a moment.

'Everything about me screams safety,' Harry says, spreading his arms. He smiles, letting just a hint of tooth show.

Malfoy lets out that faint huff of amusement again, though it doesn't show on his face.  
'Nothing about you screams safety, Potter,' he says, with a flip of his hand at Harry. 'Everything about you screams "run the other way before you get beaten up in a dark alley."'

Harry shrugs, letting his grin become more natural, as though taking Malfoy into his confidence. 'Just what you want in your hired muscle.'

Malfoy rolls his eyes and Harry knows he's considering it. 'This is ridiculous, Potter. You'll hex me the moment my back is turned and we both know it.'

Harry's mood changes and anger rushes through him again. Fucking Malfoy. He can't help himself; he's always been a suspicious, judgemental prat. At least the handshake has served its purpose; he's successfully placed the tracking spell on Malfoy. Technically illegal, now that he's no longer an Auror, but as natural as breathing. Now he can figure out where Malfoy goes and what he does whether or not Malfoy agrees to take him on. There's no need to continue trying to be nice to the prick. 

Harry leans forward, placing his hands on the table. 'You don't know shit about me, Malfoy. You don't know a single thing about what I would or wouldn't do.' He straightens, trying to hold back the snarl that wants to rise to his lips. 

He spares a thought for Archer and the clear directive he had to take the job. He forces himself to make one last attempt at getting into Malfoy's inner circle, rather than watching him covertly.

He grits his teeth. 'I'm offering to protect you. Take it or leave it.'

Harry stares at Malfoy for a long moment. Malfoy says nothing, though Harry can smell the tension on him now, can see it in every line of his body.

The silence stretches on until Harry huffs in frustration. His patience was never any good to start with, and now it's next to zero. He makes for the door, forcing himself to walk straight, to hide the limp, the pain that twists at his hip. He shreds Malfoy's wards with a wave of his hand and is pulling the door open when Malfoy speaks.

'Wait.' 

Harry turns to see Malfoy's put his glamour back in place.

'I accept,' Malfoy says without preamble. 

Harry is tempted to throw the offer back in his face, but he forces the impulse down and nods instead, a hard jerk of his head. He may have been forced out of the Ministry, but a lifetime of suspicion dies too hard. The tracker is one thing. He'll get more out of Malfoy if he's close to him.

'Meet me tomorrow at seven at the Dark Twin,' Malfoy says. 'It's on—'

'I know where it is,' Harry interrupts, turning away before Malfoy's finished speaking. Even though Harry's decided he needs to do this job—can't let Malfoy disappear again—it doesn't mean the anger rushing through him will magically calm itself. He needs to get out. To run. To get away from the strangely familiar sounds and scents, and the memories that are weaving themselves back into his mind.

'Oh, and Potter?' Malfoy says, and Harry turns back to him, anger churning in his chest.

'What?' he snaps.

'I assume you have a reason for using a Glamour. You might want to put it back on before you storm off.'

Harry only just stops himself from baring his teeth in a growl. He slams his glamour back into place and walks out, the door crashing shut behind him. He stops for just a second in Archer's office to confirm he's accepted the job, and then he's out of there. If he's lucky he won't have to see Archer or this building for at least a month.

Malfoy and all of the emotions and memories his appearance have stirred up in Harry's mind mix with the feeling of uneasiness he gets every time he visits the PROtego building. He hates spending time there. It smells wrong. Like sadness, hopelessness, jealousy, anger, pain. People need their services for all sorts of reasons, but they're rarely happy ones.

Harry runs home from PROtego, needing to stretch his legs, feel his muscles burn. It hurts his hip something fierce. The twisted mess of scar tissue he's had for the past twelve months will never be right again, but once he warms up into a loping gait, it's easier to push the pain from his mind. 

Instead, Malfoy fills his thoughts. He forces himself to think like an Auror, to take the anger out of his system. Harry sifts through every detail of the meeting, reconciling it against the file on Darius Markwell that Archer had given him. He can feel the pieces turning over in his mind like a puzzle, waiting to be slotted into the right places. The Ministry may have rejected him, but that doesn't mean he's lost any of the skills that made him a force to be reckoned with over the last fourteen years.

Why is Malfoy hiding himself? What is he doing in London, posing as a businessman under a fake name? What does he need protection from? None of it makes sense, and Harry mentally begins to tally a list of questions and observations for their meeting tomorrow. If Malfoy shows up. 

The thought throws his stride off for a moment and he swears as his foot thuds hard on the footpath, sending pain stabbing up into his hip. An old man sweeping in front of a shop gives him a dirty look and Harry has to actively resist glaring at him. Hermione is always telling him he needs to get his temper under control. He hadn't had a problem with it for years. Not until the incident. There have been so many things he's had a problem with since the fucking _incident_.

Harry shakes his head, getting his hair out of his eyes. Malfoy will show up. Something in him is sure of it. It was in the sharpness of Malfoy's scent, the interest in his eyes, the way he studied Harry just as closely. And if he doesn't show up, there's always the tracker.

The feeling of being angry and off-balance hasn't faded by the time Harry makes his way to the Burrow that night. Molly is expecting him—he's had a standing date at the Burrow on Wednesdays and Saturdays for the past year—but he would have gone anyway. 

He needs to ground himself; to be surrounded by family. By pack, if he's honest. Harry steps through the front gate, feeling a tension in himself ease. His level of dependence on this place now worries him, but at the same time he embraces it, running headlong into it. Here, he can let himself think thoughts that are not safe anywhere else. Here, he is home.

He can hear a warm babble of voices as he walks across the grass and he focuses on them, picking out individual ones and feeling his anger slip further away. George is here, of course. His voice had taken on a more subdued tone after the War and had never gone back to its former exuberance. He can hear Fleur singing quietly to herself and Molly telling Arthur off about something or other. As he steps closer he makes out Hermione's soft voice as she reads to Rose. 

Harry feels a glow of warmth in his chest at the thought of Rose. He's always loved her—been fascinated by the way she'd grown, the way she was loved, the way she learned about the world. He'd seen her in some ways as his chance to start again, to do better than he had when he'd been a godfather to a child he had let down in the worst of ways.

But ever since the incident, those feelings have intensified. He loves Rose now with a fierce protectiveness that means he would lay down his life for her. It's built into his very DNA. Pack. Cubs. Protect. He'd struggled against it when he was first bitten, convinced that he was wrong, that he was sick and that he shouldn't be anywhere near any of them, but Rose especially. She was too young, too weak. He was dangerous. A monster.

After all, he's seen what happened to children who played with wolves. He still has nightmares some nights, still hears that voice calling out to him in the darkness.

The first few months after the bite had been the dark times, the times when he almost thought he'd go mad with it. The times before Hermione had made him see, had reminded him, that he was both now. Human and wolf. And both parts of him have needs. Some days he still doesn't believe it. Some days he wants to tear himself apart, go feral like so many do. Every time, she talks him into accepting it, trying to embrace it. Everything hurts less if he just gives the wolf what it needs. He walks a constant, desperate line, trying to make sure that what the wolf wants balances with what he, what _Harry_ , needs too. It's a balance he doesn't get right most days. Fuck, but he hates the thing that lives inside him.

Harry pushes the door open and the scents inside wash over him. A small smile tugs at his lips as he gets confirmation that Bill is there too. Always so quiet, but unmistakable. Harry feels more settled by this knowledge. Bill's not like him, not fully, but he knows enough that Harry always feels better in his presence.

A moment later Bill is there, pulling Harry into a hug and rubbing their cheeks together, lingering for a moment. Harry breathes him in, letting their scents mingle and then lets go with a sigh.

'Hard day?' Bill asks, looking him in the eye as he steps back.

Harry shrugs, feeling the turmoil of his thoughts, even now. 'You could say that.'

They walk together into the living room and Hermione looks up with a smile, nudging Rose, whose face lights up as she sees him. She jumps off the couch, running towards him and yelling, 'Uncle Harry!'

Harry bends, ignoring the flare of pain in his hip as he does. It's far worse than normal and he has to fight not to show it on his face—he's run too hard and too fast today. He picks Rose up, swinging her light form into the air with ease. She laughs as he swoops her through the air, settling her on his shoulders.

'Giddyup!' she yells, kicking at him. She's six now and starting to grow out of some of his games, but he's glad this is still one she loves. He takes a few quick laps around the lounge, making sure to jolt her around, to her screams of delight. Then he tips her off his shoulders and onto the couch beside Hermione before slumping down on her other side.

He leans across Rose to rub cheeks with Hermione, breathing her in as well and letting the scent of her, the sweet pomegranate smell of the body wash she uses, settle him further. She'd stopped using perfume a week after he'd turned.

'Ron still at work?' 

She nods. 'He won't be back until late. They have a few big cases on at the moment.' She doesn't say any more and Harry doesn't ask. That's an unspoken agreement between the three of them. Ron had tried to keep him abreast of the doings of the DMLE after he left, but Harry had wavered between a longing to be back in the action, rage at how he had left, and frustration at the way things were being handled in his absence. They'd all agreed it was better to avoid the topic.

'How was your day?' he asks instead, and Hermione launches into a detailed discussion of the meeting she's had with members of MACUSA and the Bulgarian Ministry of Magic.

'It's so frustrating, Harry. It's like they're deliberately walling me off because I don't specialise in the same field as they do. It's the exact same thing I had with the French, Malaysian, and Chinese Ministries. It's like there's some worldwide conspiracy to keep knowledge and control of magical creatures in the hands of the few.' She huffs in frustration, and puts an arm around Rose, pulling her in close. 'I have half a mind to re-train and change fields.'

''Mione, please. It's not worth it.' Harry puts a hand on her knee, trying to soothe her. This isn't the first time she's expressed a similar sentiment, and he loves her for it, but there's no way he'll let Hermione throw away her career for him. She got a seat on the Wizengamot three years ago and she's well on her way to being elected Minister in the next five. He's not worth throwing that away.

The world is the way it is. There are all sorts of reasons, after the War, that people like him have become feared and cast out. He's seen too much carnage, has known the chaos werewolves wreak on people's lives too intimately, to think that that hatred isn't justified. Werewolves are monsters. There's not a lot she can do about it and he refuses to let her waste her life trying.

Hermione narrows her eyes at him and opens her mouth to argue. He could probably go word for word with her. _Harry, you_ are _worth it. You're still you. And it's not just about you. This discrimination isn't right. Lupin was facing it twenty years ago, and it's only got worse from there._ He wants to tell her the families of those killed by wolves every moon would beg to differ. Some days he wants to grab her and shake her and make her _see_ the way the wolves have torn everything apart.

'Dinner's ready,' Molly calls from the kitchen, and Harry sends up a silent thanks for the reprieve. He gives Hermione's leg a squeeze before he stands, reaching down for Rose and pulling her onto his shoulders again. She giggles at the way he almost needs to bend in half to get through the doorway without smacking her head on it. When he sits down at the table, he leaves Rose on his shoulders, and she giggles harder as everyone pretends to look for her.

Harry takes a deep, calming breath and lets go of the tension shifting inside him. He hates bringing bad memories into this place with him. Instead, he watches as his plate is piled high with lamb chops and mash, steamed veggies and gravy. He lets out a small grin as he sees the drip of blood coming from the rare meat. Molly meets his eyes with a kind smile from across the table, and Harry breathes out and feels himself settle fully. He's safe here.

He is home.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry arrives at the Dark Twin half an hour before the time Malfoy had specified. He wants to watch for a while, to see who comes and goes and whether he can spot anyone who might be working with Malfoy. The Dark Twin is one of the more fashionable clubs in Diagon Alley, but its placement on the edges of Knockturn gives it an air of danger and risk that many of the more popular clubs don't have. Harry knows for a fact that all sorts of illegal substances move through the walls of the Twin. He can smell them. 

He orders a glass of Firewhisky and sips it slowly, enjoying the burn as he looks out across the club from his booth along the wall. It's still early and the club only has a smattering of guests. All are dressed well—Muggle, of course. They're in clumps around the bar and the booths, heads bent in serious conversation, a few moving slowly around each other on the dance floor. The lights are dim, but Harry's been here when they go out completely. He knows the scenes of wild abandon the Dark Twin hosts. He's had to break them up more than once. And just maybe, under a glamour, he's participated in them once or twice too.

Harry spots Malfoy as soon as he walks in. He's glamoured as Markwell again, his dark hair slicked back. He's dressed in well-cut trousers and a deep blue shirt which is open at the neck. He strides into the place like he owns it, and Harry sees a few eyes follow his path. He can't help the spike of irritation that Malfoy's confident stride gives him. He walks like he owns the world. It makes Harry sick to think of the things he's done; things that shouldn't let him live this confident, powerful life.

Harry wonders again what Markwell's backstory is—what he's doing here. As Malfoy makes a beeline for the bar, Harry revisits his mental list of the evidence he'll need to gather to make a watertight case. He watches as Malfoy collects a glass of wine and casually casts his eye over the few patrons, sees his gaze sharpen as he spots Harry sitting in the shadows. Harry lifts his glass in a gesture of mocking greeting. Malfoy's eyes narrow slightly; the expression obvious despite the dim light. Harry wonders idly what he'd be able to see with the lights out. He hasn't tested that particular ability much.

Malfoy makes straight for him, touching the panel at the edge of the booth as he slides in opposite Harry. Immediately the noise from the rest of the club goes hazy and distant, as the Silencing Charm takes effect. Malfoy reaches for his wand and Harry tenses slightly, but Malfoy simply flicks it, putting up his own privacy and Silencing Charms on top of the built-in ones.

'You're a paranoid bastard, now, aren't you?' Harry says, tone mild. He'd spent the night before lying awake, considering the best way to approach Malfoy, the best way to create a false sense of trust between them. In the end the approach was simple. Simulate as much of their schooldays tension as possible. Malfoy had reacted perfectly to it the day before, and it had clearly got under his skin, created something familiar and known between them.

Malfoy's eyes are sharp and his smile is sharper when he speaks. 

'Well, Potter,' he says, his drawling voice sounding slightly off in another man's mouth. 'When even my hired protection is attempting to illegally track me, I have a right to be paranoid, do I not?'

Harry stares at him as the words sink in. He feels an icy curl of doubt, his self-satisfaction at knowing how to handle Malfoy bleeding away. What Malfoy just said is impossible: the tracker is _impossible_ to detect, especially when someone as practiced as Harry casts it.

He pulls out his wand, casting the spell that will light Malfoy's location up for him. It fails. Nothing happens. Malfoy looks at him, eyes flinty.

'You cut me apart, Potter,' Malfoy says, and there's barely restrained fury in his voice. 'I still have the scars from it. You think my body doesn't recognise your magic?' He leans forward, looking Harry dead in the eye. 'You try anything like that again and you'll regret it.'

Harry stares at him, mind racing, as he tries to figure out what game Malfoy is playing. If he's found and removed the tracking spell, why the hell has he turned up? And… Malfoy still has scars? Harry's eyes drop to his chest and he feels a tiny flicker of guilt. He remembers the blood. So much blood. He pushes the image away. It isn't helpful. He isn't here to feel guilty about sixth year. He needs more information. He's missing something. Something big. Malfoy clearly has a reason for coming back—something to make the risks associated with Harry knowing his identity worth it.

'What do you need protection from, anyway?' Harry asks, leaning forward and crossing his arms on the table as he speaks.

Malfoy's eyes flick down for just a second, grazing across the bared skin of his forearms, and Harry is surprised to realise that Malfoy still finds him attractive, despite knowing who he is underneath the glamour. It was very clearly a look of interest, but so quick that it might have been involuntary; or at least so quick that someone else may not have noticed it in the low light.

'Oh, so you're going to try again to be my bodyguard, are you, Potter? Perhaps we can take it a little more seriously this time?' His tone is pleasant, mild, but laced through it is the same anger from before. Malfoy stops for a moment, takes a sip of his wine and seems to settle himself.

'I can look after myself,' Malfoy says, and Harry, thinking about the way he's comported himself so far, realises he has no doubt about that. Whatever else Malfoy may be now, he's clearly capable. 'But I need to give the impression that I can't, and I need to fit in. To fit in, I need someone like you living with me and looming over me. Can you do that?'

Harry sits back, mind racing as he considers Malfoy's words, his apparent openness to Harry still working with him, despite what he'd tried to do. He attempts to fit the new information about the role Malfoy needs him for and why he might allow Harry close to him into the case he's building in his mind. 

'I loom very well,' Harry says absently as his mind races. _Create familiarity_ , he reminds himself. 'I'll channel Crabbe and Goyle if that makes you feel more comfortable.' 

Too late Harry remembers what had happened to Crabbe. He sees the flash of pain across Malfoy's face, smells the sour smell of it, tinging the air. 

'Sorry,' he mutters, looking down at the table. His apology is genuine as the names and faces of his own dead, always with him in some way, flicker in his mind. 'That was insensitive.'

Malfoy makes a soft sound of surprise and Harry looks up. 

'Did you just apologise to me?' Malfoy asks, a hint of incredulity in his voice.

Harry pushes a wry smile onto his face, trying to look caught but unrepentant. Surveillance has clearly failed; he figures he has approximately ten minutes to earn Malfoy's trust before this meeting is over. 

'I try to be less of a prat than I may have been in the past,' he says with a shrug.

Malfoy snorts and mutters, 'Wouldn't be hard,' so softly that anyone with normal hearing would have missed it.

 _You can talk_ , Harry wants to reply, but then he reminds himself that he's thirty-one, working a case and entirely too mature for that sort of response. Luckily, Malfoy seems to shake himself out of the moment.

'I can't tell you anything about the business I need to do, but the people I'm doing it with are criminals,' Malfoy says, and Harry feels the inevitability of that statement in his bones. Of course Malfoy is working with criminals. And Harry is willing to bet everything he still has that Malfoy's own dealings are far from squeaky clean. 

'Consorting with criminals?' Harry is aware his words have an edge of accusation to them, but he can't bring himself to rein it in completely.

Malfoy takes a sip of his wine, appraising Harry with dark eyes that look wrong, though they hold the same level of intensity that he remembers seeing from across the Great Hall for so many years.

'Yes, less of a prat. I see that,' Malfoy says, no trace of humour in his dry tone. 'If you're asking if I'm a criminal, the answer is no. I'm not doing anything illegal. My work often puts me in touch with people who are, though, and for that, I need to take certain precautions.'

'When you say your work,' Harry says, keeping his voice casual, 'what exactly do you mean?'

Malfoy merely shakes his head, as though amused at the attempt at digging. 'That's not really any of your business, Potter. We're not here as friends, after all. I've hired your company for a job. You've been assigned to keep me safe. I'll tell you whatever you need to know about possible threats—' The curl of Malfoy's lip makes it clear he considers that unlikely, '—but that's all you need to know. Anything and everything else about why I'm here and what I'm doing is my business.'

Harry makes himself shrug, as though he was only asking out of curiosity. A part of him - the new part, the part with no patience - wants to rise to the challenge, to force it out of Malfoy. To hurt him until he tells. The smarter part, the part that had been an Auror and a field agent and run countless interrogations, reminds him that he'll get more out of Malfoy with a long game.

'Fine,' he says. 'Archer said the assignment was a long one. I'll need a couple of days to myself at the end of next week, but aside from that I'm available. What are the logistics?'

But Malfoy shakes his head. 'Not so fast, Potter. You have done absolutely nothing to indicate I can trust you with this job. What assurances are you going to give me that I'm not going to end up in a Body-Bind in the Auror holding cells?'

Harry considers him for a moment, aware that the question and how he responds to it is going to be his first hurdle into gaining Malfoy's confidence.

'What assurances do you need?' he asks, as an idea jumps into his mind; it's a play straight out of rookie training that's served him well more than once. _Promise them whatever you have to. The bigger it is, the more chance it will be successful as a bluff_. 'You want me to cast an Unbreakable with you?'

Malfoy catches his breath at that and Harry hears his heartbeat skip, thudding hard in his chest.  
'You're saying you'd cast an Unbreakable Vow not to betray my secret?' Malfoy asks, disbelief all through his voice.

Harry shrugs, mind sifting through the techniques he'd learned that allow him to couch his words just so. An Unbreakable was dangerous, the magic had its own way of identifying people's intent, but it could still be worked around with the right wording.

But Malfoy is already shaking his head. 'No,' he murmurs, almost to himself. 'We'd need a third person to cast it, and we'd both need to be wearing our own faces, which would rather defeat the purpose.' 

He sits back in his seat, taking another sip of his wine as he considers Harry over his glass. His eyes are cool but Harry can almost see the thoughts racing behind them.

'Have you ever heard of a Loyalty Bond, Potter?' Malfoy asks at last.

Harry wracks his brain for a moment. Bonding magic isn't something he's ever paid much attention to, aside from knowing there are a thousand romance books out there sighing about it. Hermione's had one or two lying around the place, though she loudly decries bonding as one step up from assault.

'No,' he says at last, wary of agreeing to something he hasn't heard of.

'It's simple,' Malfoy says, regarding him with the same look of challenge in his eyes that Harry knew he'd been wearing the day before. Something in Harry wants to rise to it, despite knowing the impulse to do so immediately is dangerous. 

'It's old magic. It's fallen out of favour in the last few hundred years, but some of the pureblood families still use it on the estates, with heads of staff and what not. You wear something of mine - traditionally it would be a house sigil, but I don't think you sporting the Malfoy crest would be advisable.' Malfoy smiles, but there is no warmth in his eyes. 'Then we cast a bond that ties you to me. You literally won't be able to tell anyone about me. You can't write, you can't speak, you can't pass on your memories.'

'Why the fuck would I agree to that?' Harry asks, Malfoy's words running through his mind. _We cast a bond that ties you to me_. At least with the Unbreakable he knew what he was getting himself in for. 'How do I know what the hell you would do with a bond that makes me your slave?'

Malfoy shakes his head, as though Harry is being particularly slow.

'It's nothing like slavery, Potter. Your mind and your will would be your own. You'd just be incapable of betraying me.' He holds up his hand, clearly anticipating Harry's next objection. 'You would be able to remove the Bond at any time. You just remove the object I give you.'

'And then what?' Harry asks, still suspicious. It couldn't be as simple as that.

'And then I know you've broken the Bond, I fuck off the second you do it and you never see me again, let alone have a chance to set your old friends on me.'

Harry sits back in his seat, crossing his arms as he considers the offer, turning it over in his mind. He'll have to check the bond independently of course, make sure it does what Malfoy said and nothing else, but if Malfoy accepts him taking a bond as a sign of his goodwill, it will give him the time he needs to build a case.

'Okay,' Harry says, letting his annoyance at being forced into the agreement into his tone. Malfoy will expect it of him. 'Fine. A Loyalty Bond. Like I said, I'll need a couple of days at the end of the week, but aside from that I'm available. What are the logistics?'

Malfoy seems to relax slightly and he leans back. 'That's fine. I'm not expecting it to be constant contact. We start tomorrow night. I'll bring the bonding object with me. I've booked my first meeting with a lower-level entry point. I need to get to the top eventually, hence the time. To get what I need, I'll undoubtedly have to prove myself in a number of ways. That's why I'll be expected to bring you. Markwell is wealthy, and known to be shady, but wealth and a dirty background alone aren't going to get me to the person I need.'

Harry feels a small glow of satisfaction at the flow of words. Malfoy will undoubtedly take a while to trust him, but he's clearly passed the first test. He thinks about the information he was just given. The approach makes sense. He wonders again what Malfoy has been doing all these years, how he's managed to hide himself so successfully all this time.

'I've hired a suite at the Marriott on Canary Wharf to keep up the pretence that I'm only in town for business,' Malfoy continues.

'Where do you normally live?' Harry asks, and then wants to bite his tongue as Malfoy's face shutters again. Harry waves the question away. 'So, what prep do you need me to do?'

Malfoy's eyes flick across his body for an instant and Harry smells a hint of arousal. It surprises him enough that he breathes deeper, almost unconsciously, but when he meets Malfoy's eyes, there's no hint of his reaction to the words. He wonders if he's mistaken. There's no way Malfoy could be interested in him, especially not after the conversation they'd just had.

'Nothing. I have all the details in hand. Your job is simply to shadow me, to be alert to possible threats, and to intimidate the shit out of people if needed.'

Harry nods. These things he can do. There's an air about him now, a feeling of threat that he can't help but exude. He knows because Ron told him about it, one night a few months in, after they'd got smashed—Harry downing three drinks to every one of Ron's.

_'It's a bit freaky, mate. It's like you're constantly on edge, like there's something inside you that you're only just keeping a hold on.'_

Harry wonders if Malfoy sees this in him as well, and if he does, what he thinks of it.

Malfoy stands abruptly. 'Another drink?'

Harry nods, watching him as he walks back to the bar. Again, more than one head turns to watch his slim form move through the room. Malfoy seems to recognise and accept the attention like it's his due and Harry thinks he'll have no trouble playing the part of the rich but shady businessman, if it's even a part he's playing.

Malfoy returns a few minutes later, sliding back in opposite Harry and placing another Firewhisky in front of him.

'So, you didn't say yesterday, exactly what the hell you're doing here. Do you legitimately work for this company, or was the whole temper tantrum resignation from the Ministry last year a ploy and you're actually working deep undercover?' Malfoy leans forward, a sharp interest suddenly filling him, as though he wants nothing more than the answer to his question. 

Harry's mood darkens again. He wonders for a moment why Malfoy cares, but then he figures it's the same vulture-like interest everyone had had in him after he quit. He'd worked over half his life for what he had and everyone wanted to pick over the carcass of his career to discover why he would throw it all away.

Harry downs his new drink in one and bangs the glass onto the table, forcing himself to hold his strength in so he doesn't smash it. It still tears him apart, the way they'd made him do it, the way they'd forced him to resign after the incident. Robards' words had been tinged with regret, but full of steel. 

_'It's just not possible, Potter. No matter how well you adjust. The public won't have it. Werewolves are dangerous. They're animals—the number one cause of creature-on-wizard death, even now. It would undermine all legitimacy the Ministry Law Enforcement team had, to have them led by a were. I'm sure you understand.'_

Harry understood alright, half his career he'd hunted rabid weres, containing or killing them before they could spread the disease further. He'd fought against the prejudice to start with, but once the numbers had risen… Once he'd experienced that one night of terror and pain and had what was so precious ripped from him by those animals, well, after that he'd had no issues throwing himself into the hunt. 

After all, most of them were nothing like Lupin had been, and there were so many of them after the war. 

So Robards had sacked him and Harry had sat there and listened to the fear and disgust layered underneath the words. Robards had lost his wife to a were, after all. And Harry would never be able to forget what he had lost to the wolves so many years before.

The only thing the Ministry had been able to do for him was hide the nature of his incident, destroy all evidence, and allow him to claim some dignity through leaving on his own two feet. Harry smiles bitterly; some days he hates himself for how grateful he is for that fact. The number of people who know of his shame and who aren't in the Weasley family can be counted on one hand, and he has to keep it that way.

He glares at Malfoy, who has one finger rubbing idly up the stem of his wine glass as he considers Harry, eyes sharp.

'Why I left is none of your fucking business, Malfoy,' Harry says as he pushes to his feet. He's had enough of this conversation. Enough of this dance around Malfoy that leaves him feeling worked up and on edge. He throws Malfoy's words from earlier back at him. 'We're not friends, after all.'

He turns away, stepping out of the booth. 'I'll be there tomorrow night,' he says. 'Don't try and contact me before then.'

He leaves without looking back.

~

Harry stands outside the hotel Malfoy directed him to for a long time. He watches it, idly noting people coming and going, illuminated by the lights of the entrance before they disappear into the darkness. They seem to be Muggles, though it's impossible to tell for sure. Blending in is something everyone got a whole lot better at after the War. If they'd gone backwards in some things, at least they'd come forwards in that.

The hotel is a glass monolith, towering far above everything around it and Harry wonders if choosing it fit with Darius Markwell's persona, or Malfoy's personal choice. He thinks probably it's a bit of both, the flash fuck. He takes in the elements of the building, noting entrances and exits, calculating possible escape routes if they had to leave without magic. It's second nature—the instinctiveness of it was one of the reasons he'd decided to take on jobs like this. It's all he knows, after all these years. He doesn't know if he'd be able to do anything else.

Finally he pushes away from the building he's been leaning on, sighing heavily as he admits to himself why he's really been stalling. His mind flashes back to the conversation he'd had with Malfoy the night before, and the bit of research he'd done into Loyalty Bonds, which had told him, exactly as Malfoy had said, that they had the simple purpose of not allowing someone to speak against the subject of the bond, and that they were easily broken.

He has no further reason to stall and he knows if he stands there much longer he's going to be late. Malfoy had said he was making contact with someone that night after all. Harry's hardly going to get the information he needs loitering out here.

He hefts the strap of his canvas rucksack up on his shoulder and walks across the road. 

The reception is all wood panelling and backlit glass. Harry knows he looks out of place with his leather jacket, jeans, and combat boots and the thought that Malfoy will be pissed off about that puts a smile on his face.

'Hunter James,' he says to the woman on the reception desk. She takes him in, her eyes widening slightly and Harry has to stop himself from wrinkling his nose at the smell of her sudden interest.

Her eyes linger on the exposed skin from the v of his shirt and Harry feels like clicking his fingers in her face. He clears his throat and her eyes jerk up to his.

'Of course, Mr James,' she says, looking down at her computer and tapping away for a moment.

'You're in one of our executive apartments. Your companion checked in a few hours ago.' She hands him a key card with a bright smile and a touch that lingers against his fingers just a moment too long. Harry forces himself to hold his smile.

He takes the lift up to the twenty-seventh floor and the door beeps at him as he swipes his card. As he does, Harry feels the tingle of wards against his skin. He hesitates, but they don't challenge him as he opens the door. Malfoy must have matched them to his signature. 

Harry frowns, uncomfortable with Malfoy having that level of intimate knowledge about him. Sneaky bastard must have copied his signature when he unravelled the tracker.

He feels an edge of darkness woven into the wards, and wonders what would have happened if he'd brought Aurors with him and tried to Apparate them inside.

Harry walks through the door, closing it behind him as he takes in the apartment with a glance. It's not top-of-the-line luxury like he'd expected, but it's plush, decorated in reds and golds. A large, open plan living space with floor-to-ceiling windows is spread before him. The view out over the city lights is stunning, but Harry doesn't let his gaze linger. Off to one side are two closed doors, the other side of the apartment holds a small kitchen, a dining table and a clearly ticked off Draco Malfoy. He's wearing Markwell's face, and Markwell's fuller lips don't quite manage to capture the same cutting disdain Harry remembers.

Harry walks further into the room, deliberately taking his time now as he looks around, studying everything with over the top interest.

'This is nice, Malfoy,' he says, running his hand over the back of a burgundy-coloured velvet covered couch. 'Very… Gryffindor.' He lets his amusement bleed into his voice as he steps closer to the doors he assumes lead to the bedrooms and reaches for a handle.

'That's mine, Potter,' Malfoy says, tone icy. 'If you've quite finished, do you think you might put your shit down so I can get my business done some time tonight?'

Harry feels a stab of satisfaction at the fact that he's only been here for thirty seconds and he's already managed to rile Malfoy up. He moves to the right and opens the other door, revealing a well-appointed bedroom, a king-size bed sitting in the middle of it. He shrugs his rucksack off his shoulder and throws it on the bed, then turns back to face Malfoy.

He's still sitting at the table, wearing charcoal trousers and a light blue shirt. Harry takes in the way his waistcoat hugs his body before he rolls his eyes at the pretentiousness of wearing a fucking _waistcoat_.

'Sit down,' Malfoy says, pushing out the chair opposite him with his foot.

Harry drops into it and considers Malfoy.

'Your wards are for silencing, privacy and anti-Apparition?' he says, taking a guess.

Malfoy nods once.

'Visual too?' Harry asks, nodding his head at the huge glass window opposite them.

Malfoy nods again and opens his mouth to speak.

'Drop your glamour,' Harry says, letting his go as he speaks.

Malfoy's lips purse and he watches Harry for a long moment, his dark eyes difficult to read, then he reaches for his wand, tucked inside a pocket in his waistcoat and waves it. Markwell's face disappears and Harry's not surprised Malfoy looks just as peeved as Markwell had.

'Are you done?' Malfoy asks, clearly striving for a civil tone.

'For now,' Harry says, shrugging. He might have decided to work for Malfoy, but that doesn't mean he has to be nice to the prick.

'Good,' Malfoy says. 'Drink this.' He reaches into his pocket as he speaks and pulls out a tiny vial of clear liquid. Harry knows without asking that it will be tasteless.

'You've got to be joking,' he says, voice flat and hard.

'Do I look like I'm joking?' Malfoy deadpans, voice just as hard. 'You've known my identity for the last forty eight hours. I need to know, before this begins, if I have an ambush waiting for me when I leave this room. Now take the fucking Veritaserum and answer a few questions for me.'

'No way,' Harry says. It was Auror 101. Never put yourself under Veritaserum. There was too much to lose.

'It's not a choice, Potter. You take the Veritaserum and tell me what I need to know, or we both leave this room and never come back.'

Harry can see the resolve in his eyes. Malfoy's heartbeat is absolutely steady. He isn't bluffing. He's ready to cut his losses.

'Fine,' Harry says, slightly gratified by the surprise that flashes across Malfoy's face. 'If you take it too.'

Malfoy scowls and leans back into his seat. 'Why in Hades' name would I do that, Potter?'

'Because we're both too stubborn to back down from this, and we both have too much to lose to be that vulnerable to each other. This way we can trade off—each set some out-of-bounds topics. Breech that and the other person gets to do the same.'

Malfoy seems to be considering it for a moment before he grimaces. 'Fine. You can't ask me anything about who I'm meeting with and why. I'll tell you the details you need to know when it happens. You also can't ask me anything about where I've been the last ten years.'

Harry considers that, mind working around it.

'You can't ask me why I left the Ministry,' he counters, 'Anything relating to my casework at the Ministry, or why I took the new job.'

Malfoy nods and then nudges the vial closer to him. 'Two drops is the minimum dose. It will last ten minutes.'

Harry rolls his eyes in annoyance. 'I'm a damned Auror, Malfoy. I know what the minimum dose of V is.'

'You _were_ an Auror, Potter,' Malfoy says, not taking his eyes off him.

Harry forces himself not to rise to the taunt and lifts the glass, uncapping it. He lets two drops hit his tongue and then passes it to Malfoy. He can feel it running through his body already, the truths rising to the surface, bubbling to get out. He bites his cheek. He's been trained for this. He'll be fine.

He watches carefully until he's satisfied Malfoy has actually ingested the drops.

There's a tense silence between them. Harry almost doesn't want to break it. Let the clock tick down to zero for all he cares, but there are things he wants to know, and this might be the perfect opportunity to get those answers.

'Well,' he says, voice taunting. 'You had questions?'

Malfoy sucks in a breath through his nose. He seems to be trying to swallow words that want to jump from his throat as well.

'Have you, Harry Potter, communicated in any way, including speaking, letters, memory drops, or other methods, to any person or thing, about my real or false identity, my appearance or my presence in London?'

'No,' Harry blurts, before he can stop himself. Malfoy is good. Harry wonders how often he's interrogated people under Veritaserum.

Malfoy nods, seeming to relax slightly and Harry decides to see if he can get something out of him. He pushes for the question that's been most on his mind.

'Why do you want me on this case?'

Malfoy's heartbeat rockets for a moment and he opens his mouth, blurting out words, seemingly against his will. 'Because I want to know more about you.' His mouth snaps shut and he looks furious, whether at himself or Harry for asking the question.

Harry considers him with just as much surprise. That had _not_ been the answer he'd been expecting.

'Why did you take the case?' Malfoy snaps back.

A hundred answers spring into Harry's mouth, almost choking him. It takes the control he's learned through hours of resisting Veritaserum to choose the one answer he's willing to give. 'Because I want to know more about you.' 

Malfoy's mouth flattens in displeasure, and Harry wants to smirk, but then it occurs to him that if he'd dodged the question with an answer like that, Malfoy may have too.

Harry scowls. 'Have you done anything illegal since you broke parole?'

Malfoy's speaking almost before Harry's finished his sentence, the words seemingly pulled from him. 'I've bought and sold illegal potions ingredients. I've impersonated others using Polyjuice, against their knowledge. I've -' Malfoy's mouth snaps shut and he closes his eyes, breathing deeply for a moment as his jaw clenches and twitches. After a moment he opens his eyes and the look in them is murderous.

'I told you, Potter,' Malfoy grinds out through gritted teeth. 'What I've been doing is off limits.'

Harry shakes his head, letting the Veritaserum direct the truth in his words with ease this time. 'No you didn't. You said where you'd been was off limits.' He can't help the smugness in his voice and he doesn't want to.

'Fuck you,' Malfoy spits, standing, clearly done with the whole thing.

'Has Lucius Malfoy done anything illegal since he was released from Azkaban?' Harry asks, watching Malfoy intently.

He doesn't seem to struggle at all with this one. 'I have no idea,' he says flatly. 'I haven't talked to either of my parents in ten years.' At that he turns, retreating to his room, undoubtedly to wait out the rest of the Veritaserum. Harry watches him go, surprise filling him. Malfoy had always been so close with his parents. The idea that he might not associate with them anymore strikes Harry on some fundamental level. 

He feels a tug of loneliness in his chest, at the thought of being without a pack. He forces himself to put ideas like that aside. Thoughts like that are dangerous. Malfoy is his path back into the Ministry and a former Death Eater who needs to be put back in Azkaban where he belongs. That's it.

Harry sits back, watching the doorway Malfoy had disappeared into. He concentrates and he can hear Malfoy rifling around in something before there's the snap of a container closing. A moment later Malfoy strides back across the living area to him.

'Why did you decide to accept a Loyalty Bond from me?' he asks, holding a thick silver chain in his hand.

Harry's mind races for the answer to that. He can tell the Veritaserum is weakening from the fact that it gives him a second to gather his thoughts before the words come.

'I wanted this mission and that was the only way you would agree to it,' Harry says. Malfoy frowns but seems to trust the truth of Harry's words. He throws the bracelet in his palm to Harry, who snatches it out of the air with ease. Malfoy watches his movement in a way that's just a little too observant.

Harry looks down at the bracelet. It's a simple chain, patterned to look like dragon scales. It feels warm against his skin, and he realises it's taken on the warmth of Malfoy's hand. The idea of that—that he will be wearing something of Malfoy's—makes him uncomfortable.

'So I just put this on?' he asks, diverting his attention with the question.

Malfoy nods. 'You put it on, I cast the spell and then we test it.'

'Right,' Harry says, his former satisfaction at having forced Malfoy to give him some information fading in the face of what he is about to do.

He takes a deep breath. He's already decided to do this. He knows the pros and cons. He needs to just get it done.

He shoves one of the sleeves of his jacket up his arm slightly and flicks the clasp open, wrapping the chain around his wrist. Malfoy steps closer, reaching out to clip it closed, before pulling out his wand, face inscrutable.

'Fidelitas,' he says, tapping the bracelet once. 

Harry doesn't have to ask if it worked. He can feel it. An increased awareness of Malfoy, of how close he is, of how he smells; the heat from his body as he stands less than a foot away.

'Write to Weasley,' Malfoy says, stepping back and dropping his wand. He nods his head to indicate the papers on the table. 'Tell him about me.'

Harry wants to tell Malfoy he's being stupid, that the spell clearly worked, but he figures it might be quicker to do things this way. He pulls a piece of paper and a pen towards himself and leans over.

 _Ron,_ he begins.

The next words appear in his mind, _I've located Draco Malfoy_.

He looks at the paper in front of him, registering after a moment that it's blank. He tries again, frowning and gritting his teeth. A moment passes and the paper is still blank. It's like he'd faded for a second and lost the instant in time where he'd thought about betraying Malfoy.

'Fuck,' he says, standing up straight again and throwing the pen to the table.

Malfoy looks satisfied by whatever he's just observed.

'Take it off,' he says, and Harry feels a moment of confusion. Surely Malfoy isn't asking him to—

'The bracelet, moron,' Malfoy says. 'I need to make sure I can feel it when you do.'

Harry feels himself flush slightly at the strange direction his mind had just gone. This sort of situation is no place for a thought like that, let alone about Malfoy. He looks down at the bracelet, feeling suspicion curl through him. His research had said only that he wouldn't be able to betray Malfoy. It had said nothing about the creation of physical awareness, or intimate thoughts with the instigator of the bond.

He unclips the bracelet as quickly as he can and drops it to the table. The moment it loses contact with Harry's skin, Malfoy jerks as though stung. He nods and then indicates Harry should put it back on. Harry eyes the thing, thinking about what he'd just discovered.

Malfoy's focus on him sharpens as a few seconds tick past and he hasn't acted. He has to do this, he reminds himself. This is the only way to get close enough to Malfoy to find out everything.

Malfoy steps closer again to fasten the bracelet and this time Harry's skin tingles with his presence—with the faint brush of Malfoy's fingertips against his wrist. It happens before Malfoy has even uttered the words for the spell. 

It's disconcerting. He wants to take the bracelet straight back off, to get away from that increased awareness. He forces himself not to move. He can cope. He's dealt with much worse. He'll just need to be aware of his reactions to Malfoy, and aware of how the Bond is warping them.

'Right,' Malfoy says, holstering his wand and stepping back as soon as he's done. 'Now that we've wasted enough time fucking around, can we please go meet the person I came to London to see?'

'After you,' Harry says, gesturing to the entrance. 

The bracelet slides against his skin as he moves and Harry forces himself not to think of the warmth of Malfoy's skin.


	3. Chapter 3

They're outside and Malfoy has organised the front desk to call him a taxi before Harry's thoughts catch up to where they're going and what they'll be doing when they get there.

'So are you going to give me any details, or do you literally want me to just loom behind you for the night?' Harry asks, unable to stop the sarcasm bleeding into his voice.

'The latter will do just fine,' Malfoy says, as the car pulls up and he climbs in the back, forcing Harry to go around to the other side.

'Where are we going, anyway?' Harry asks after he climbs in.

Malfoy gives him an exasperated look, Markwell's features putting an ugliness into the sneer. 'I don't know what part of "you don't need any details, just look intimidating" doesn't make sense to you, Hunter, but maybe try and focus on one word at a time until it becomes clear.'

Malfoy leans forward and tells the driver an address in Whitechapel which leaves Harry none the wiser, then he pulls a mobile phone out of his pocket and taps away at it, a slight frown on his face.

Harry is too thrown by the fact that Malfoy has called him Hunter, has hailed a taxi, and clearly understands how to use Muggle technology, to push further. He feels like the person sitting beside him is different from Malfoy in more than just his face. The thought unsettles him, that he might not know as much about Malfoy as he'd assumed he did; that he might make more missteps in guessing how Malfoy will think and act in this hunt between them.

Harry sits back in the car seat, trying not to breathe in too deeply. Underneath the smell of cleaning products, the car reeks of stale sweat, spilt food, and other unsavoury things he tries very hard not to think about.

It's only a ten minute trip before they're pulling up in front of a seedy looking building with a flashing neon sign that reads, of all things, Licker's Tits.

Harry looks sideways at Malfoy, who passes the driver some folded notes before opening his door and stepping out. _Surely not?_ Harry glances back at the building. There are giant hot pink tits blinking at him from the blacked-out window.

The driver turns around to give him a look as though he is particularly slow and Harry shakes himself out of his disbelief, opening the door and stepping onto the street. He can feel the deep bass of the music inside vibrating through him immediately and he knows inside it must be overwhelming.

He takes a few steps closer to Draco, who is straightening his waistcoat, and grabs his arm.

'What the fuck is this place?' he hisses. 'It looks like a strip club.'

Malfoy glances at him with that exasperated look on his face again. 'It _is_ a fucking strip club, Potter. Now get your damned hands off me and do the job you keep assuring me you can do.'

With that he wrenches his arm forward and Harry loosens his grip to let him go. Malfoy makes for the door, completely ignoring the bouncer on the way in. The man glances at Malfoy but makes no move to stop him. Harry looks back at up the neon sign dubiously. If this is a strip club then Malfoy's type—all flashy and clearly with money to spend—are probably regular fare.

Harry follows behind him, trying to push his mind into gear so he can do his job. The bouncer puts his arm out as Harry approaches, looking him up and down.

He's a beefy man, taller than Harry and a bit broader in the chest. Harry stops before the man can touch him.

'We don't want any trouble inside,' the bouncer says, a hard look on his face. 'Understand?'

Harry looks down at the arm blocking him and then back up into the bouncer's eyes, suddenly, unaccountably angry at the challenge to his right to go wherever the fuck he pleases. He could crush this man's skull between his hands if he wanted to. He could claw his throat out before the idiot could blink, let alone yell for help.

The bouncer drops his arm and Harry smells the sharp, acrid scent of fear. Malfoy steps back out of the entranceway and his eyes narrow when he takes in the scene before him.

'What's going on?' he asks, a tone to his voice that sounds like suspicion.

Harry forces himself to calm down, to take whatever the fuck kind of threat he's projecting off his face and out of his body. The wolf's responses are so much quicker than his and he hates the way it makes itself known.

'Nothing,' he says, dropping the bouncer's wide-eyed gaze. 'I was just coming in.'

Malfoy makes a noncommittal noise, eyeing Harry a second longer before he turns away, moving back into the darkness of the entrance as he pushes a heavy door open. They're in a dimly lit foyer and the deep bass beat Harry could feel outside is now a louder thump, making him think of grinding bodies and swinging hips. It hits him that this is exactly what he's about to see when he enters the club.

Malfoy pushes the doors to the main room open, not waiting to see if Harry is following, and Harry almost staggers from the assault on his senses. 

The music hits him like a wall and strobing lights flash at him, forcing him to blink and look away as his sensitive eyes adjust. Then the scents, faint in the entry, wash over him, almost drowning him in their intensity. Lust is the overriding one. Pure, unadulterated _want_. The room reeks of it. He can smell sweat as well, and semen, both fresh with a sharp, bitter tang, and old, crusted and dead. There's anger in the room. Sadness. Disgust. It hits him at once, all of it, and it's all he can do to keep standing.

Then Malfoy is there, and the door is swinging closed again, cutting the overload off briefly. Malfoy's scent wraps around him as he clenches Harry's arm, leaning in close to look into his face.

'Hunter?' he says, his voice a mixture of annoyance and something else Harry can't quite recognise. 'What's going on? This better not be some prudish fit of the vapours. I have things I need to do here tonight.'

Harry shakes his head, unconsciously breathing in, so that Malfoy's sharp scent fills his nostrils, clearing some of the desperate need he'd just inhaled.

'I'm fine,' he says, forcing his voice to be steady. 'Just … headache,' he lies, not very convincingly from the way Malfoy's eyes narrow at him. 'It … it was a lot. Just hit me.'

Malfoy frowns. 'Are you going to fuck this up for me?' he asks bluntly, still standing close to Harry. Too close.

Harry takes a step back, away from Malfoy's touch, and takes another deep breath. Some of the scents from the club come back through as he moves further away from Malfoy.

'I'm fine,' he repeats. 'Let's go.'

He knows what to expect this time, when Malfoy opens the door. It's still a lot—all of his senses feel like they're being assaulted at once—but he can cope with it. He's coped with much worse. He follows behind Malfoy, who glances back at him just once, as though to assure himself Harry has followed and hasn't passed out on the floor or something.

Harry feels unaccountably embarrassed that Malfoy caught his reaction. That Malfoy thinks he's weak. The thought is enough to send a flare of anger through him and he forces himself to block out his senses as much as possible and focus on cataloguing what is in front of him, looking for anything out of the ordinary, anything that might help him figure out what Malfoy is doing here.

The club is dominated by a catwalk that runs down the middle of the room. There are four women on the stage at the moment, all in various stages of undress, riding poles or presenting themselves to the crowd—overwhelmingly men—watching them. Most of the women in the audience seem to work for the club as well, based on the level of undress they're sporting. Over to the right are what look to be private booths, many of the tables in them holding a pole and some holding women, delivering more tailored shows.

The left of the room holds a bar, and it's to this that Malfoy walks, his eyes tracking across the women on the stage and moving away without lingering. There is too much noise for Harry to be able to focus on Malfoy's heartbeat and too many other smells for Harry to pick up Malfoy's arousal, if that's his reaction to what he sees.

At the bar Malfoy orders himself a scotch, neat, and nothing for Harry, passing the barkeeper payment and slipping him another note as he leans in and says something in Malfoy's ear. Harry just catches the words over the thump of the music.

'Corner booth, nearest the door.'

Malfoy turns that way immediately, picking his way back through the room as Harry follows behind him, looking at the audience, as though searching for some sort of threat. He doesn't know why he bothers. They're all clearly captivated by the sights in front of them.

The man in the corner booth is thin and his teeth are crooked. He reaches forward to clasp Malfoy's hand in his, giving a smile that reeks of insincerity. He pays no attention at all to Harry. Harry makes sure he takes in all the features and defining characteristics. This man could be important or could be no one, but he has to be thorough.

Malfoy slides into the booth opposite him, making no indication that Harry should be seated as well.

Harry takes up a position at the edge of the booth where he can see both Malfoy and the man he's clearly come here to meet, and the rest of the club. He slides into the easy stance he'd adopted in the Aurors, feet apart, hands clasped loosely behind his back. He used to be able to stand this way for hours. Now, the pain in his hip is a constant, throbbing reminder that he's not as good as he used to be.

Both men have leaned forward, raising their voices to be heard, but still pitching them below the level where anyone nearby would have been able to pick up on the conversation.

Harry looks away, enough that he can see Malfoy from the corner of his eye but doesn't look like he's eavesdropping. He focuses on the conversation, wondering if Malfoy assumes Harry can't hear them, and what he might let slip if that's the case.

'Adrian Hallbrook?' Malfoy says.

The man opposite him—Hallbrook—nods. 'You're a new face,' he says.

'I've been abroad,' Malfoy says with an easy smile. 'France mostly.' Malfoy looks around the club, making a face as though he's interested. Harry can't quite tell, when Malfoy is wearing Markwell's features, but it looks like bullshit.

'You run this place?' he asks.

Hallbrook nods, a look of greed coming into his eye as he gazes out over the room as well. 'Have for six years now,' he says. 'I source all the best girls.'

'That's why I'm here,' Malfoy agrees, smile widening a touch. Harry has to stop himself from jerking his head around to glare at Malfoy. What does he mean that's why he's here? To look at girls… or to source girls?

He forces himself to keep his casual stance, waiting to hear more, gather more evidence. This is just like any other undercover mission. He has to stay calm in the face of whatever he might hear from the suspect.

'That's why they all come here,' Hallbrook says, and Harry can hear the leer in his voice. It blends perfectly with the feeling of exploitation running through the room. It makes him want to be sick.

'Oh, no,' Malfoy says, his voice light as though he was chiding Hallbrook. 'You misunderstand me. You and I have many things in common, you see. I've been abroad. I'm looking to connect some markets.'

'So you said on the phone,' Hallbrook says, sounding unimpressed. Harry wonders just what sort of markets Malfoy is talking about, and what he could have in common with a sleazebag like Hallbrook.

'I want to meet with Davies,' Malfoy says, clearly deciding to take the direct approach in the face of Hallbrook's disdain. Harry files the name away in his memory.

Hallbrook laughs, as though Malfoy's just said something hilarious. Malfoy doesn't respond to the sound. He merely indicates he's going to reach into a pocket inside his waistcoat.

He pulls out what is clearly an envelope stuffed full of cash. It's out of sight a second later, but Hallbrook's greedy eyes and the movement of his arms make it very clear he's sifting through it under the table.

'There's another after I've met with Davies,' Malfoy says and Hallbrook looks up, face almost slimy with agreement now. Harry watches the interaction between the two of them, feeling unease stirring in him. What the hell does Malfoy need that he's handed over thousands of pounds just for the possibility of a meeting with someone?

'It would be my pleasure to make that happen, Mr Markwell.'

'Good,' Draco says. 'Contact me on the number we spoke on before when you've made it happen.' 

With that he stands, leaving his untouched drink on the table before him. He tugs slightly at his waistcoat to straighten it and then walks towards the entrance, not bothering to say anything further to Hallbrook or to even acknowledge Harry's presence.

They exit the club and Harry expects Malfoy to order another taxi, but Malfoy just starts walking. Harry takes a deep breath of the air around him. It smells dirty, but it's better than the cloying scents that are stuck inside his throat at the moment. He runs through what he just observed, and what it could mean.

'What was that?' Harry asks, taking another deep breath and then stepping more quickly so he's walking at Malfoy's side.

'Not here,' Malfoy mutters and Harry subsides with a quick glance around. There are a number of other bars open around them and people are walking between them, spilling out onto the street. He wonders if Malfoy will tell him when they're in a less exposed place. 

Malfoy had said, in their first meeting, that he wasn't a criminal, but that he worked with them. Harry wonders, thinking about the conversation he's just observed, where exactly Malfoy draws the line at who is a criminal and who is not.

They get a short way down the street before Malfoy steps into a dark gap between two buildings, then he moves closer to Harry and puts a hand on his arm. Without warning, Harry feels the sickening hook of Apparition tug at his guts.

He stumbles slightly when they stop, his hip flaring with the agony of the fact that he's landed heavily and jarred it. They're standing in the living room of their apartment at the Marriott. Harry feels the snap of the anti-Apparition wards go back up around him and then he realises he's touching Malfoy—leaning into him—and that the fresh, clean scent of Malfoy is in his nose. He breathes it in, unable to stop himself.

Malfoy stiffens and steps back.

Harry shakes his head, standing up as he forces himself to focus. _Fucking wolf_. Malfoy might smell better than that bloody club, but that doesn't mean Harry should be smelling him. He drops his glamour. It makes him feel more grounded.

'What was that?' he asks, looking at Malfoy in annoyance. 'Are you selling women? Is that what's going on?'

Malfoy scoffs, but drops his glamour as well. His eyes are even more mocking when cast in silver. 

'Why the hell would I be selling women, Potter? They're hardly my area of interest.'

Harry looks at him, not understanding. Malfoy rolls his eyes in exasperation. 'I prefer cocks, Potter, not that it's any of your business. Owning women and selling them for the pleasure of men is very much not a space I play in.'

Harry looks at him, not convinced. Malfoy had made a deal of some sort and had certainly indicated he was open to being in a market like that. He pushes away the thought that Malfoy is gay. He's already known that, from the way Malfoy has been checking him out. To have it confirmed means nothing.

'I need a shower,' Malfoy says as he turns to the door that leads to his room. 'I feel filthy.'

He pauses with his hand on the door, looking back at Harry. 'Room service is 24/7. I don't expect to have contact for Davies for a few days, so just use whatever part of the building you want to. There's a gym and a pool from memory. Stay close in case the contact comes sooner.'

Harry nods but Malfoy turns away without waiting for an answer.

A few minutes later Harry hears the shower turn on and he realises there must be a bathroom between their two rooms. A second later he realises that means they'll be sharing it. The fact that he'll be sharing this apartment constantly with Malfoy for the next five weeks hits him all at once. He's going to be sitting opposite him at breakfast, seeing how he spends every day, privy to all his phone calls and movements. He starts to think about what he needs to watch for. He wonders if Malfoy has files or documents with him; if he can have a hunt through his room at some stage.

He deliberately doesn't think about the fact that he'll be seeing Malfoy when he's sleepy and ready for bed, or that he will smell like Malfoy after a day or two of living in such close proximity to him. These are things he will have to put up with to be able to do his job.

Harry moves over to the kitchen to distract himself from where his thoughts are going and has a poke around in the cupboards. He doesn't want to lie down. He feels saturated with the scents of the club and he doesn't want them on his bed. Instead he locates a glass and a bottle of scotch and pours himself a drink, walking back over to the windows to look out over the city as he lets his thoughts unravel.

It's beautiful up this high, the city spread out below him. He glances up at the moon, half-hidden by the clouds. The glowing orb calls to him, but faintly. It's waxing at the moment, another five days and it will be full, but for now the call is a gentle tug, something that fizzes pleasantly in his blood. He deliberately doesn't think about what he will do if Malfoy requires his presence while the moon is full. He has potions—he's brought them with him—but they leave him useless the night of the moon and the next few days he always feels washed out, sick, and weak. He's never taken them around anyone but the Weasleys. He doesn't think he could make himself that vulnerable to anyone else.

Harry sips his drink and rests his head against the cool glass of the window as he thinks, tracking over everything that's happened since he arrived in Malfoy's apartment earlier that night.

He replays the Veritaserum conversation, runs a finger over the chain clasped around his wrist and thinks through the interactions he'd witnessed at the strip club.

There are layers to it, Harry thinks. Layers upon layers to whatever game Malfoy is playing. He recalls Malfoy's words about why he had agreed to have Harry work for him, despite Harry knowing his identity. _Because I want to know more about you._ The words echo inside him. Surely, Malfoy is hiding things within that statement.

A sound tickles at the edge of Harry's consciousness for a long moment before he pulls himself out of his thoughts to focus on it.

It's a faint sound, a rhythmic splashing. Harry listens to it for a long moment before he realises what he's hearing and he freezes. It's Malfoy, in the shower. Wanking. He's listening to Malfoy wanking.

The sound would be imperceptible to normal ears over the noise of the bathroom fan and through the wall, but Harry may as well be standing in the same room as Malfoy, now that he's focused on it.

He's about to turn on the telly, just to give himself something that's louder and more immediate to focus on, when Malfoy moans. It's a breathy, broken off sound, as though he's trying to be quiet. And he is quiet. The sound is barely louder than the splash of water. But something about it sends a flare of heat running through Harry, followed by a feeling of disgust.

Malfoy was just at a strip club—just had a conversation about owning women—and is now wanking over it. A part of Harry wants to go in there and make him stop, tell him he's a sick fuck… but the thought of seeing Malfoy naked and dripping, fist around his cock as he tilts his head back and—

Another low, broken moan interrupts Harry's thoughts and he feels his anger rise—at himself this time—as he realises he's getting hard. He's listening to Malfoy jerk off and getting hard over it.

It's been far too long since he got laid, clearly. Twelve months, maybe longer. But since the incident he hasn't even tried to pull. Hasn't touched anyone intimately. Has barely even touched himself that way.

Harry hears Malfoy's movements speeding up, the splash of water coming more rhythmically. Then there's a grunt and the sound stops. Harry realises Malfoy just came. He's just listened to Malfoy come. The thought sends that same heat straight to his cock and he curses himself for his body's response. _Fucking wolf_. Damned thing heightens all of his reactions and this is one of the worst side effects. It has an almost visceral need for sex.

Harry hears the shower switch off, then the door opens and closes. He imagines Malfoy, reaching for his towel, body long and lean and gleaming with water.

He throws back his drink and moves back to the sink, banging the cup down on the bench with more force than is necessary.

He runs the tap to drown out the sound of Malfoy brushing his teeth, and then a door opens and closes and he hears the rustle of covers as Malfoy climbs into bed.

There had been no pause for clothes. Malfoy is sleeping naked. Harry growls at himself for his stupidity and crosses the living room. He's covered in the scents of other people still. That's all. The arousal he'd been steeped in is affecting him. He needs to wash it off his skin.

He throws his leather jacket over the back of the couch, kicks his boots off near the door, and enters his bedroom, collecting his toiletry bag from his rucksack and the towel from his bed.

The bathroom is still hot and filled with steam. It smells of Malfoy—his body wash, his shampoo. Under it, he can smell the sharp tang of Malfoy's come, despite the fact he's clearly washed it down the drain. 

The mix of smells is disorienting. He doesn't want to be smelling any of this from Malfoy, but no matter how bad it is, it's still far better than the same smells from strangers at the club. He throws a Locking Charm at the door that leads to Malfoy's room and then pulls his clothes off quickly, throwing them into the washing basket. He sees some of Malfoy's clothes already in the bottom and the thought—the _domesticity_ —of that is something he doesn't know how to deal with.

He turns the shower on instead, his eyes catching on the bracelet on his wrist, Malfoy's bracelet. It feels like it's always warm, like there's some tendril of Malfoy sitting inside it. He remembers his suspicion from earlier, that the bracelet is forcing a connection between them, and he looks at the thing suspiciously. 

Was that why he'd just had such a strong reaction to listening to Malfoy? For a moment he wants to rip the thing off and get out of there. The thought of being coerced into attraction to Malfoy makes his skin crawl. He glares at the wall opposite, the one Malfoy is now sleeping behind. The idea that Malfoy is doing this to him on purpose—manipulating him—disgusts him. It solidifies his suspicion that Malfoy was talking with Hallbrook about selling women. He clearly sees people as things he can use.

Harry grits his teeth and waits for his shower to heat up. He likes it scalding hot, always has, ever since he'd been allowed to have hot showers instead of the sixty-second ice-cold punishment the Dursleys had subjected him to every morning before school.

He steps in, closes his eyes, and tilts his face up to the water, letting it rush over him, drowning out all of his senses.

After a moment he moves forward, reaching for his soap and flannel. He lathers it and then goes about scrubbing the grime of the day from his body. He makes a cursory swipe across the scar tissue that ridges his left hip. He hates the reminder that it's there, and having to touch it is even worse.

The flannel nudges against his cock as he does so and Harry pauses. He's still hard, and the faint smell of Malfoy's spunk lingering in the air isn't killing his arousal like it should be. Instead, he thinks about how Malfoy was standing in this exact same place just fifteen minutes earlier, hand on his cock as he moaned out his pleasure under the water.

He forces his thoughts away from that image. He won't let Malfoy push him into something he doesn't want. He's stronger than that.

But the wolf is strong too. He can feel it stirring in him, sniffing and scenting, forcing his arousal higher at the smell of Malfoy's come. His cock jerks and he closes his eyes, shame rushing through him. The wolf rumbles its approval.

Harry's gripping himself before he means to, and the first long stroke is almost good enough to bring a groan from him as well. Only the thought that Malfoy might somehow hear him over the water makes him bite his lip. He will _not_ give Malfoy the satisfaction of knowing his perverted plan has been successful.

He pulls himself hard and fast. He wants this over with. The wolf won't let him ignore it, but that doesn't mean he has to enjoy it. He needs to get off quickly and then he can forget all about Malfoy. 

He presses a palm against the wall and stills his hand, moving his hips instead, fucking into his fist, imagining a willing arse in front of him, bent over, presenting to him.

Harry closes his eyes, picturing a lean body pushing back against him, desperate for Harry to fuck deeper. Harder.

He pants as he feels his release building already. It's been far, far too long. He imagines gripping the man in front of him, fingers hard enough to leave bruises across his hips; hard enough to mark. The thought of that, of marking pale skin, and declaring someone as his _does_ have him groaning as he moves his hips faster, snapping them forward. He tightens his grip on himself, imagining reaching out to grab pale blond hair, pulling Malfoy's head back to bare his neck.

The image is so strong that Harry's gasping his way through his orgasm as soon as the picture enters his mind. He slows his movement and rests his head on his arms as he stands under the hot spray, pulling in deep lungfuls of air.

 _Fuck. Fucking FUCK_. He hates himself in that moment. But he hates Malfoy and the monster that lives inside him even more.

After a long moment he straightens, knees slightly shaky as he washes the evidence of what he's just done down the drain.

~

Harry wakes to the sound of someone making coffee. He casts a _Tempus_ and groans when he sees it's just gone six am. Malfoy is an early riser. Great. He contemplates lying in bed for longer, but the idea of being in bed while he can hear Malfoy moving around in the next room makes him feel uncomfortable, so he gets up, rummaging through his bag and pulling on joggers and a sleeveless top. It's pleasantly warm in the apartment, so he doesn't bother with socks. He stretches slowly, trying to work the stiffness out of his hip. It's always worse right when he wakes up. 

Malfoy is leaning against the kitchen bench when Harry opens the door of his room. He's fully dressed, in grey slacks and a light green collared shirt which looks good on him, as cliché as the colour is. He raises an eyebrow at Harry's dishevelled appearance, but doesn't comment, merely lifts his mug to his lips.

'I was about to order breakfast,' he says. 'If you want something?'

Harry wants to say no, just to be contrary, but he knows that now he's up he'll need to eat soon. His metabolism is so much higher than it used to be. The amount of food he consumes on a daily basis is embarrassing.

'I'll have a full English,' he says, as he moves past Malfoy to put the kettle on again for some tea. He can't do coffee anymore. His senses already run too fast for him, most days.

'Sleep okay?' Malfoy asks, looking over at him. His lips curl into a small smile. 'Water pressure okay?'

There's something in Malfoy's eyes that makes Harry double guess himself. Malfoy couldn't know Harry had wanked in the shower last night, could he? He'd been so quiet. The bond doesn't tell him how Harry reacted to it… _does it?_ The thought makes him feel sick so he ignores the questions and busies himself with the teabags. He decides he's going to pretend none of it happened and let Malfoy make what he will of that.

After a moment Malfoy pushes off the bench and moves over to the phone to place their breakfast order.

They eat in silence when it arrives. Malfoy raises his eyebrows at Harry's heaped plate, but doesn't comment. He's got two pieces of toast in front of him, a thin layer of blackberry jam on each one. His mouth will taste sweet when he's finished, Harry muses, as he piles his fork high. Then he pulls himself up, wondering where the hell that thought came from. He glances down at his bracelet and grits his teeth.

'I need to go out today,' Malfoy says, after he's finished the last bite and washed it down with his coffee.

Harry looks back up at him, surprised by the announcement. 'I thought you needed to wait around for the next meeting, with Davies?' 

Malfoy shakes his head. 'That could take all week. I have other avenues to pursue as well. There's more than one way to skin a dragon.'

Harry shrugs. 'Sure. Give me a minute to finish this and I'll be ready.'

'Your presence isn't necessary,' Malfoy says. 'It's different business. There's no expectation I would come accompanied.'

'I want to come,' Harry says, the subtext running through his mind. _I don't trust what you might do while you're out of my sight._

'Why?' Malfoy asks, the challenge clear in his tone.

Harry shrugs, affecting nonchalance. 'I'm being paid to be here. I may as well make myself useful. Maybe I could lift some heavy things for you?' He makes himself smirk, though he wants to throw Malfoy into a wall. Being around him is infuriating.

Malfoy _almost_ cracks a smile. Harry can see it hovering at the edge of his lips. 'Fine,' he says. 'I need to get some papers together first. I'll be leaving in thirty minutes.'

'Perfect,' Harry says. 'That gives me some time to check the security on the apartment. I meant to do it last night but it slipped my mind.' 

This isn't an excuse. He doesn't feel comfortable staying in a space he hasn't personally verified and strengthened the wards on. He never would have, but the instinct is stronger now. His den needs to be secure and he doesn't try and push back against that particular need. In this one thing, the wolf and him are aligned.

For a moment Malfoy's eyes heat with something knowing, but he merely nods and stands, fiddling with the fancy coffee machine as though he's trained as a barista at some point.

Harry listens to him frothing milk and wonders again what Draco Malfoy has been doing for the last ten years that he is so clearly familiar with Muggle living.

It only takes him a minute to get properly dressed and he spends the rest of his allotted time inspecting Malfoy's wards (which are strong) and adding additional protections of his own (nasty things, for the most part). By the time he's done, the apartment is Unplottable and fully masked with Silencing and Privacy Charms so strong a _Reducto_ could go off in the room and the neighbours wouldn't register it.

He strengthens the windows so they could withstand said _Reducto_ and spells the door to be transparent from their side, so they can see anyone who approaches. Then he spends a moment putting layers of locking spells over the top of the security card access.

Finally, he strengthens Malfoy's anti-Apparition wards, adding a twist keyed to both of their magical signatures so that they don't have to be dropped to let the two of them in and out.

When he's finished, he turns back to the table to see Malfoy, his papers now a neat pile in front of him. The look on his face is difficult to read, but there's an intensity about his eyes and his heartbeat is slightly faster than normal.

'This room is practically crackling with your magic, Potter,' Malfoy says, the intensity melting into a sneer. 'Do you think we're just about safe enough, now?'

Harry feels a faint flicker of embarrassment at the words. His magic is far stronger than it used to be and there's a raw edge to it, as though it wants to force its presence across the spells he does. He hates when people notice the things that make him different. For Malfoy to have noticed it is somehow even worse.

'I can tone it down, if you want,' he says. 

Malfoy waves a hand dismissively. 'No, it's fine.' His scent is changing again but Harry can't quite get a fix on what emotion he's feeling right now.

'You ready?' Malfoy asks, standing and shrinking the papers down to put them in his pocket. He spells his glamour back on and Harry nods as he approaches.

'Can I Side-Along you, again?' Malfoy asks. 'I take it you modified the wards to allow that?'

Harry nods again, taking a brief moment to reflect on his sanity in giving Malfoy permission to Apparate him to some unknown destination. He also remembers the way he'd basically ended up with his nose buried in Malfoy's neck the night before.

Before he can rethink his decision, Malfoy has grabbed his arm and there's a crack as he's pulled into space. When they land, Harry is leaning on Malfoy again and he straightens quickly. He hates Apparition so much. He takes a quick look around, assessing for any possible threat, despite Malfoy telling him that he didn't need accompaniment that day.

They seem to be in a basement, a carpark by the look of it. Harry looks back at Malfoy to see him reaching into his jacket pocket for a flask of something. He pulls an envelope from another pocket and drops a hair into the flask, grimacing as it begins to bubble. He gives it a quick swirl and downs the contents. 

Harry looks away as the Polyjuice takes hold. He's never liked watching it. When he looks back, Malfoy is a man in his fifties, with rugged features and silver streaked hair. His clothes are tight until he spells them into shape. 

'And who are you now?' Harry asks, looking him up and down. 

'James Bond,' Malfoy says, with a rakish wink as he walks over to one of the three cars parked in the small space. It's a sleek, gunmetal grey and looks like it goes fast. Harry doesn't quite believe what he's seeing until Malfoy waves his wand at the blank concrete wall and a key safe appears. Malfoy unlocks the door with a flash of lights and walks around to slide into the driver's seat with practiced ease.

The car roars to life as Harry stands there, staring at him. Malfoy revs it, once, and Harry realises that if he doesn't get in, Malfoy will probably leave him behind. He opens the door and slides into the leather seat, taking a second to appreciate that his first thought had been correct. This car is expensive.

'Can you drive this thing?' he asks, looking at Malfoy with a faint feeling of anxiety stirring in him.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. 'No, Potter, we're just sitting in it for fun. Now, put your damned seatbelt on.'

Harry reaches up beside himself and clicks it on. Malfoy revs the engine again and then lets it idle to a deep thrum as he reverses smoothly out of the carpark and directs it up the ramp and out onto the street, some sensor in the car activating the garage door.

'Where are we?' Harry asks, as he looks around the unfamiliar street.

'Uxbridge,' Malfoy says, that single word leaving him none the wiser. Harry feels frustration curl in him. Malfoy is so damned _together_ all the time and there are so many secrets hidden inside him.

'How did you learn to drive? Whose face are you wearing? Is this your car? Do you just have them stashed all over the city?' Harry knows he's babbling, but he can't seem to get his head around the fact that this is Malfoy next to him, wearing someone else's identity and competently directing this Muggle car through Muggle traffic as though he's done it a million times before.

'Too many questions, Potter,' Malfoy chides. Then he looks over at Harry and there's something sharp in his smile. 'Unless you want to go one for one?'

Harry scowls at the thought. There are too many things he doesn't want Malfoy asking him about for that to be a good idea.

Malfoy laughs and the sound is surprisingly happy. 'Your face, Potter. It's like I kicked your crup. You can ask me one of the questions. Will that wipe the pout off your face?'

Harry resists the childish urge to argue that he's not pouting and thinks about what Malfoy just said. He wants to ask how Malfoy learned to drive. He never bothered, himself, and the idea of Malfoy going to a Muggle driving instructor for lessons is faintly ludicrous. But he doesn't. He knows that this is by far the least important of the questions.

'Do you have stashes like this all over the city?' Harry asks, as though he's just curious.

Malfoy sees right through him and his smile is positively fox-like as he answers. 'Potter, I have stashes like this all over the _country_. I have a hundred identities with a hundred lives, just waiting to be used.'

The word 'why' comes to Harry's mind, but the answer is obvious. How do you keep yourself from being caught when the whole Ministry of Magic is after you? Become someone they're not even looking for. It's genius, really.

'How did you get started, doing this?' he asks instead.

'Why did you choose to work security, after the Ministry?' Malfoy shoots straight back at him. Harry thinks about that question; about the possible dangers of answering it; about the benefits of getting Malfoy to open up to him in turn.

'I couldn't do nothing,' he says, after a long moment, looking out the window as he watches the streets go by.

Malfoy makes a sound of disbelief. 'You're Harry Potter. You could spend the rest of your life in bed being waited on by naked women, and no one would bat an eye.'

Harry snorts a laugh at the image.

'No?' Malfoy says, a hint of disbelief in his voice as he flicks the indicator and changes lanes smoothly.

'What was it you said last night?' Harry asks. 'Oh yes, I prefer cocks.'

Malfoy's head jerks around and he meets Harry's eyes for just a fraction of a second before he seems to force himself to look back out the windscreen.

'That's not a piece of information that's made it to the papers,' he says, his voice filled with a casualness that would sound totally natural if Harry couldn't smell Malfoy's sudden interest. 

_Malfoy is attracted to me_. The thought hits Harry with a certainty that is undeniable. Malfoy doesn't just find his body attractive. Malfoy has just had a strong, unconscious reaction to the thought that Harry is gay and could possibly be available to him in turn. He glances down at the bracelet, wondering if the connection it's forcing goes two ways. Surely not? Malfoy wouldn't subject himself to that.

'It's not something I hide,' Harry says, answering Malfoy's question. 'But it's not something I've flaunted, either.' He feels anger stir as he considers the journalists who've made his life hell and have ruined so many important things for him over the years. 'The last thing I want is those vultures from the newspapers getting their hands on that knowledge and making a big deal about it.'

Malfoy tenses slightly beside him, the scent of arousal dimming as something harder takes its place: anger. Harry wonders at that. Has Malfoy had run-ins with the press too? Is he still hung up over the coverage of his trial and disappearance all those years ago?

Before he can ask, Malfoy puts his foot down and the engine roars as the car leaps forward. Harry sees a sign directing them onto the M40 and Malfoy pulls onto it smoothly as he presses down harder on the accelerator. They gain speed quickly, until they're passing all of the cars around them, Malfoy weaving in and out of the traffic with a confident grace.

They're going far faster than anyone else, and despite the fact that Harry can't see their speed, he knows Malfoy is breaking the law.

'Aren't you worried about getting caught?' he asks, looking at the tension in Malfoy's jaw and the way his fingers are clenched slightly too tight around the steering wheel.

Malfoy just shifts lanes again, pushing the car even harder. 'I have charms up,' he says. 'The car projects a few seconds worth of Obliviation, constantly.'

Harry raises his eyebrows, the idea is a clever one. He looks out the window and watches the countryside fly past. He supposes he should feel worried, travelling this fast, but Malfoy's grip on the wheel is confident and strong, and with the way he heals, Harry would probably survive a car crash anyway.

He sits back and lets himself enjoy the ride. He's never been this fast in a car. The Weasleys' old Ford Anglia's top speed hadn't come anywhere near what Malfoy is travelling now, even in the air.

'It's almost like flying, isn't it,' he muses after a few minutes.

Malfoy looks over at him and nods with a faint smile. 'It's why I get the fast ones,' he says, looking back at the road as he pulls out around a car and merges smoothly back in.

'Do you fly much, anymore?' Harry asks, a faint curiosity tugging at him. He tries to tell himself that he needs to know as much about Malfoy as possible; that this could be relevant to the case. He can't quite make that sound convincing in his mind.

Malfoy is quiet for a moment before he shakes his head. 'Not really, no. I don't have time.'

Harry wonders at that. Malfoy looks like he directs his own time, whatever it is he does. Then he thinks about what he's seen of Malfoy's life in the past few days, about the absolute absence of anyone in it, in a personal sense. He thinks about how it feels to fly alone versus how much he loves mucking around with Ron and Seamus and some of the Auror crew in an after-work pickup.

Loved. He hasn't flown with them since the incident. Has barely flown at all. Sitting on a broom makes his hip ache now. The first time he'd tried, he'd had cramps so bad after five minutes he'd had to call it off. Just another thing that's been taken from him.

Harry feels his mood darken and he looks out the window. The pull of the moon is stronger now. It's a day closer and Harry can feel it, though he can't see it in the sky. He knows his mood shifts are just going to get more and more volatile in the next few days and he's going to have to do everything he can to manage them.

They drive for another half-hour, neither of them speaking until they pull into Stratford-upon-Avon. Draco slows back to a normal pace as he makes his way through the town, until they've passed through the other side and are turning down a lane.

'Where are we?' Harry asks, looking around, committing details to memory.

'A friend's house. I'll be about two hours. You'll stay in the car,' Malfoy says, as they pull up in front of a small farmhouse and he puts on the handbrake. 'That's not negotiable.'

Harry thinks about arguing, as he runs his fingers absently across the dragonscale pattern of the bracelet on his wrist. But he subsides. It's likely he'll be able to overhear what goes on inside the house anyway.

He watches as Malfoy seems to sense his acquiescence. He nods and pulls the small flask of Polyjuice from his jacket, taking a sip and grimacing before tucking it away and opening his door. Harry doesn't watch the way the fabric of Malfoy's trousers pulls tight against his arse as he stands and the way his long legs move as he walks towards the house. Even in this body, he's fit and the confidence of his stride is all Malfoy. Harry feels that same resentment from the club simmering through him at Malfoy's easy swagger.

Malfoy knocks and Harry sees the door open after a moment. He focuses, trying to make out the person inside, but they're in shadow and all he can tell is that it seems to be an older man, perhaps in his fifties, about Malfoy's height. He hears a greeting, the door closes a second later and both sights and sounds are gone.

Harry curses as he realises there must be Silencing Charms on the house and there's not going to be a single thing he can get out of listening in.

He debates with himself for less than a minute before he's out of the car and walking slowly around the house. He probes gently at the wards, sending small testing spells to see where they extend to and whether there are any gaps. There are Privacy Charms on all the windows as well. Harry can't see a single thing inside, although he's conscious of the fact that the occupants can probably see him, so he makes sure his walk takes him behind hedges and around the back of the other sheds and buildings as much as possible.

His ten minute surveillance circuit tells him that he could easily break into the house, but there's nothing subtle he's going to be able to do about overhearing Malfoy's business. He resigns himself to that fact and moves off to one side to sit on the fence rail near Malfoy's flash car. He looks out over the green fields and lets his mind roam, sifting through the pieces of information he has so far, turning them over like they're puzzle pieces, checking if any of them fit together yet.

He needs to find out Malfoy's aim in meeting Davies, he knows. He needs to understand the talk of a market. Harry looks again over the farm, trying to see if there are any details that give away a connection to Malfoy's business in the strip club the night before. To his eye, everything looks exactly as it should, and that, coupled with the strength of the wards around the house, makes him more suspicious than ever.

~

It's an hour before Malfoy comes back out of the farmhouse. Harry doesn't manage to catch another glimpse of the occupant, despite the fact that he's focusing on the door as soon as he hears it unlatch.

'Did you get your business done?' Harry asks, as Malfoy turns the wheel and cruises back up the lane.

'Yes,' Malfoy says shortly. 'Did you?'

Harry doesn't want to respond to that statement, so they spend the drive back in silence. Malfoy drives even more aggressively this time, cutting hard in front of cars and putting enough speed on that if he made one misjudgement, Harry knows he would be very lucky to walk away.

Harry doesn't challenge him on it. Malfoy still looks perfectly in control, though his anger is evident in the air. Harry has a feeling any word from him would only have Malfoy pushing harder on the accelerator.

When they get back to the carpark, Malfoy parks the car and climbs out. He returns the keys to their box and then without a word to Harry, Apparates away. Harry stares in shock for a moment before he performs the same spell, hoping Malfoy's returned to their apartment.

He has, and Harry doesn't examine too closely the relief he feels at that.

Malfoy spends the rest of the day ignoring Harry as he does paperwork and sends messages on his phone. His Polyjuice wears off after half an hour and Harry feels a strange familiarity at having Malfoy's real face revealed again.

The sounds from his side of the room are a perpetual scratching of his pen interspersed with his fingers tapping away at his phone. Malfoy is clearly pissed that Harry was snooping around, but Harry's definitely not going to apologise for it.

He watches telly, flicking idly between channels before fixing on a cooking show. It makes him hungry.

Malfoy stops for dinner—room service again. He wordlessly passes the phone to Harry to make his own order and goes back to his paperwork immediately after he's finished eating.

Harry can't just sit around for another few hours. He has too much restless, pent up energy. After he's eaten he changes back into his joggers and sleeveless shirt and moves over to the open space near the windows. He begins to stretch slowly, warming up his muscles and allowing his hip time to respond to the movement.

When he's feeling warmer he begins his workout. It's nothing like the one he used to do in the Ministry gym, but it's the sort of movement he needs to feel the burn in his muscles. He starts with push ups, breathing steadily and focusing on the movement as he pushes himself. He's on his fourth set of fifty when his arms start burning. He lowers himself to his back, spending a second feeling grateful for the plush carpet, then starts his crunches. Full sit ups still make his scar tissue compress unpleasantly, but crunches he can do.

He's at almost three hundred when he realises the sound of Malfoy's relentless scratching and tapping has stopped. He tries to think, as he continues moving, when he'd heard it stop.

He rolls to his side, as though he's done and is just moving into the next exercise, and catches Malfoy's eyes on him from across the room. His look is filled with heat and Harry realises, belatedly, that he can smell Malfoy's interest in the air. Malfoy looks away, busying himself with his papers.

Harry stands, moving into a series of lunges that make his hip twinge, but which get more fluid as he goes on. He faces the window as he does them, but he watches the reflection. He can see Malfoy behind him. Not clearly, but distinct enough to know Malfoy is watching him, papers forgotten again as he focuses on Harry's movement. Harry's covered with a light sheen of sweat now and he knows the light is probably shining on his arms. He wonders how his arse looks in his joggers as he dips like this. The way the scent of wanting is clogging the air suggests it's probably not bad.

Harry wonders how he can use this to his advantage. Whether Malfoy is really attracted to him, or whether the bond is forcing that attraction, he should be able to spin it to get what he wants. People always open up more around those they want to be close with. For a moment the thought of taking Malfoy to bed, of fucking him hard and then plying him with questions in the darkness slips into his mind. He sets the thought aside. He's not that desperate yet, but it might be a ploy he can use in future. He'll have to play it right if he takes that path and wants his evidence to be admissible. There's a very fine line the Ministry will accept in undercover seduction.

Harry's about to turn and make some comment to Malfoy. He doesn't know what. Maybe something about how if he wasn't such a bastard he might get laid once in a while, when Malfoy stands, gathering his work together, and shrinking it down as he moves to his room with a muttered goodnight.

Harry continues his lunges and a minute later he hears the shower turn on. He doesn't slow his routine to listen, precisely, but he's due to wrap up soon anyway, so he takes the intensity out of his movements and begins to turn them into stretches, shaking his legs out and letting his body cool down as he moves more slowly.

It's not vindication, exactly, when he hears the sound of Malfoy getting himself off, but it's something. And that something sends Harry walking slowly back into his room, bare feet silent on the carpet. He knows that listening to another man wank is not just an invasion of privacy, but also kind of creepy, but he can't stop himself from coming closer. The wolf is stirring within him again, sharpening his hearing as it reaches towards the object of its interest. He lets it. He isn't quite sure why.

Maybe if he lets himself get used to this idea, that he can convince Malfoy into a fuck to get the information he wants, it will be easier to do when he comes to it.

The shower is only a foot away now, through one thin wall, and Harry can hear Malfoy even more easily. His movements are slow and his breath hitches on every third stroke. Harry wonders if he has a certain technique he likes to use, the way Harry likes to tease himself sometimes, dragging his nails up his shaft and pinching his foreskin lightly.

Malfoy gives a soft moan and his rhythm changes. Harry hears two sets of splashing and it takes him a moment. When he realises what Malfoy's doing, he feels heat flood into his cock. Malfoy must have something in his arse, fingers or a toy, and he's fucking himself while he wanks.

Harry palms his own cock at the thought. He knows this is wrong on so many levels but this close to the moon he can't help himself. The urge to mate is on par with the urge to fight. The idea that he might have both at once with Malfoy hits him and he bites his lip as he grips himself harder through the fabric of his joggers.

He forces himself to stop thinking about whether it could ever become a reality. Malfoy might be interested in him now, might even want a quick fuck at some point, but Malfoy doesn't know he's a werewolf. He can never know. The moment Malfoy finds out, his interest in Harry will die and then that avenue of information gathering will be lost.

He wonders if he can string Malfoy along instead, pretend interest and the promise of something in the future without letting Malfoy close enough to find out his secret. He wonders if Malfoy is dumb enough to go along with that.

The bathroom is filled with steam and heat and the smell of Malfoy's arousal and release when Harry enters it. Harry hates himself for finding that hot, but knowing Malfoy's getting off over him—having that power over Malfoy—sends a thrill through him. At the same time, there's something so wrong about thinking of Malfoy in that way. It's _Malfoy_ for fuck's sake. They've hated each other forever, he's shady as fuck and this thing Harry's all wrapped up in with him is probably illegal too.

Before Harry has really consciously thought about it, his hand is on his cock and he's pulling it, thoughts of Malfoy and all the reasons he's a terrible person and Harry should just stop thinking of him, filling his mind. 

It takes him barely two minutes to come this way, and he knows partly that's because of the moon—sex is always more central to his thoughts the fuller the moon gets—but it's also because Malfoy just gets in his head and even the idea of him bent over and submitting is enough to have Harry painting the wall.


	4. Chapter 4

It's two days before the full moon when Davies finally agrees to meet. Harry spends the time watching; asking innocent questions that Malfoy always manages to twist back on him; working small, friendly gestures into their interactions with each other. Harry doesn't feel like it's making much of a difference yet. Malfoy is still acting like the same rude, arrogant twat, but it's something to do while they wait.

Malfoy's working at the dining table, which he's taken over as his makeshift desk, when he gets the message. At his sound of triumph, Harry looks across from his position on the couch. The sound is immediately followed by a hum of contemplation and Harry narrows his eyes as Malfoy gets a peculiar look on his face.

'You didn't pack a suit in that hideous bag of yours, did you, Potter?'

Harry rolls his eyes. He reminds himself that hexing Malfoy or telling him to fuck off isn't going to advance his cause of building trust. 'I'm not a pretentious wanker, so no, Malfoy, I didn't.'

Malfoy gathers his notes and shrinks them—Harry's been thinking he should sneak into Malfoy's room and have a read of them during his nightly shower wank. He just doesn't quite seem to get the timing of that right, though.

'Right,' Malfoy says, standing up and walking towards the couch. 'Davies has set a meeting tonight at _Le Gavroche_ and your bad boy look isn't going to cut it. Put your glamour on, we need to visit Diagon Alley.'

Harry thinks about arguing the fact that his look isn't a 'bad boy' look. His jeans and boots are serviceable and he finds Sirius' old leather jacket comforting. He stands up and sets his glamour but before he can open his mouth to disagree, Malfoy grabs his arm and Apparates them.

Harry is holding on to Malfoy again when they land and he pushes him away with annoyance. 'You have to stop doing that.'

'Stop whinging, Hunter. We have approximately an hour to make you look presentable. It's going to be a very difficult task.'

Harry wants to retort that Malfoy doesn't seem to find him too objectionable when he's ogling Harry's body every night before going into the shower to toss off over it, but it's not in his best interest to dissuade that, so Harry bites his tongue.

He looks around. They seem to be at the main Apparition point for Diagon Alley. People are popping into place in the designated circles around them. Malfoy turns away, striding off in the direction of the shops and Harry sighs and follows him. 

They pass Harry's favourite coffee shop—Carol's—and Harry looks in the window, his stomach reminding him that he hasn't eaten in a few hours. He used to come to this place all the time for lunch with Ron. They haven't seemed to make that regular meetup happen anywhere near as much since Harry left the Ministry. 

He feels a pang of longing for Ron, and a pull of need to be around his family. It's not as strong as it normally is in the lead up to the full moon and Harry looks down at the bracelet on his wrist, wondering if it's somehow dulling the link of his connection to the Weasleys. The idea makes him uncomfortable and he twists the bracelet slowly as he thinks about it.

'Seriously P— Hunter,' Malfoy says, grabbing his arm and pulling him away from the window. 'What part of "we're going out for dinner" did you not understand? How you can eat as much as you do and still be hungry is beyond me. Now, hurry up. Even with magical tailoring, we're going to be hard pressed to get you dressed in time.'

Harry pulls his arm out of Malfoy's grip and barely resists snarling at him. He's suddenly sick of being treated like Malfoy's lackey. 'I'm just the hired muscle, remember. I hardly think it matters if I look pretty.'

Malfoy's mouth thins in displeasure. 'And that is exactly why you're the hired muscle and I'm the one hiring you. I know exactly what's needed for you to fit in and not embarrass me, and it's a tailored suit and you need it now. So shut up and hurry up.'

Harry narrows his eyes and Malfoy does the same right back. Harry has a sudden, wild feeling that the two of them might draw wands in the middle of Diagon Alley. Malfoy's fingers twitch slightly, as though he's thinking about it and Harry grins, letting a hint of tooth show in a challenge that has the wolf in him rumbling with pleasure. Let him try. He could have Malfoy shoved up against the side of the café with Harry's hand at his throat before he could blink.

The mental image of that is disarming and Harry's mind follows that train of thought for a moment. He imagines how Malfoy would feel against him, hard and lean, the heat of him along Harry's body as he breathes in the scent of him. He imagines Malfoy's scent changing, taking on that heady depth it gets at night as he watches Harry work out. The thought of it distracts him enough that he takes a step back.

Malfoy seems to take a second longer to wind down and there's still tension in his jaw as he jerks his head at Harry. He mutters under his breath as he turns away, but Harry can hear every word. 'Why is everything such fucking _work_ with you, Potter?'

Harry feels his tension leave him and he can't help the way his grin broadens. There's something so satisfying about riling Malfoy up. It makes him feel like himself in a way he hasn't in a long time.

They stop in front of a sleek shopfront with the words 'Dressed Like This,' painted across the window in a flowing gold script. Malfoy pushes the door open and a bell chimes softly. A moment later a young man strides towards them, smiling broadly as his eyes flick quickly between them. He makes a small bow before Malfoy.

'Welcome, sirs,' he says, including Harry in his greeting but directing his words to Malfoy. 'I'm Jonathan and I'll be happy to assist you today.'

Harry looks around as the tailor asks what they'll be needing. The shop is all dark wood panelling and burgundy brocade. There are light spells pointed artistically at various suits and shirts and swathes of rich fabric. It's all very flash and exactly the place Harry would have expected Malfoy to shop for his clothes, if he'd thought about it at all.

His attention is brought back to Malfoy and the tailor as the man places a hand under his elbow and guides him to one of the burgundy curtains at the back of the room.

'If you please, sir,' the man—Jonathan—murmurs, his grip on Harry's elbow making it very clear Harry will be going into the fitting room whether he pleases or not.

Malfoy seems to be busying himself picking amongst the range of fabrics like a kid at a birthday party, so Harry turns his attention to Jonathan as the curtain swishes closed.

He's about Harry's age, maybe a bit younger, and well built. There's a turn to his nose that's cute, even if he doesn't have the same sharpness to him that Harry finds himself more drawn to. Harry spares a brief thought for old Madam Malkin as Jonathan directs him to undress with a no-nonsense gesture and a snap of his tape measure. This shop seems a world above her kind presence.

Harry has a feeling there's no use in arguing, so he toes off his boots, realising as he does so that there's a hole in one of his socks. He considers shooting a quick Darning Spell at it before Jonathan, or Merlin forbid, _Malfoy_ , can notice, but he's so rubbish at them he'd probably end up sewing his sock to his toes.

Instead he throws his jacket on the arm of the chair behind him and stands, waiting to see what's needed of him.

'Trousers too, please, sir,' Jonathan says. 'Mr Markwell was quite insistent that I take correct measurements and that's far too difficult while one is wearing jeans.' Harry can almost hear the curl of Jonathan's lip as he says the last word, though not a hint of it shows on his face. He sighs, figuring the sooner he gets the measurement over with, the sooner he can get dressed again.

He undoes his jeans and pulls them down, stepping out of them and taking the opportunity to remove his socks at the same time. In a minute he's standing in nothing but a t-shirt and his pants—neither leaving much to the imagination, he realises as he looks in the mirror. He glances at his hip and is reassured to see that his tight black briefs fully cover the scar tissue that displays a very clear set of bite marks across his hip. That's something he doesn't need anyone else to see and tell tales about, whether he's wearing his own face or not.

Harry turns his attention to Jonathan as he gets to work. His hands are cool and smooth as he directs Harry's limbs where he needs them so his tape can do its job. A Quick-Quotes Quill hovers in the air behind him, scribbling down measurements as Jonathan murmurs them under his breath.

The whole thing is very efficient, almost impersonal, until the curtain opens behind him and Malfoy walks in, a number of fabric swatches draped over his arm.

Harry's eyes snap to his face and he watches Malfoy's reflection as he enters the dressing room. Malfoy's eyes basically rake their way down Harry's body before stopping very clearly on his arse. It's a long moment before he looks away, and when he does, it's to meet Harry's eyes in the mirror. 

What he sees in Malfoy's gaze is hot and interested and Harry feels arousal run through him. His cock twitches, fattening ever so slightly and Harry realises, suddenly, that Jonathan is kneeling in front of him and his tape is incredibly close to Harry's groin, as he measures the inseam. Rather than deterring him, the idea makes heat curl through him again—that Malfoy could see him with another man on his knees in front of him. See him but not be able to touch him.

Harry gives Malfoy a slow, lazy smirk in the mirror. He hears Malfoy's heartbeat spike and he feels a stab of satisfaction. The attempts at developing a friendship haven't been particularly fruitful so far but the hints of something physical in the future are looking much more promising.

At the thought that he's only doing this—only encouraging this—for the case, Harry drops Malfoy's gaze. He wills himself to think about anything but the way he's getting hard over the desire in Malfoy's face. It's Malfoy. He has to keep reminding himself of that. This is all so he can get closer to Malfoy and figure out what he's been up to. None of it is real. It's Malfoy and he's a prat and a suspect and has no idea that Harry is a werewolf. To top it off, the entire reason Harry is feeling anything about him is because of a damned Loyalty Bond Malfoy basically forced him into. None of those things make showing any real interest in him a good idea.

Malfoy steps up beside him a moment later, directing his attention down to Jonathan, still kneeling on the floor in front of Harry.

'I thought a light green?' he says as he holds out the fabric, 'With a charcoal pinstripe?'  
If Harry couldn't hear Malfoy's heartbeat, thudding overtime in his chest, he would have thought him totally unaffected by the whole experience.

The tailor stands and takes the fabrics, draping them over Harry's shoulder and examining him in the mirror. Malfoy does the same, moving to stand behind Harry, close enough that Harry can feel the heat from his body; close enough that if he leaned back, they would be touching. He wonders if Malfoy knows he's doing it, if he's doing it on purpose because he's trying to play Harry the same way Harry is playing him. The idea makes him frown. Is Malfoy putting all of this on—the interest, the looks, the shower wanks—just to throw Harry off the trail of what he's actually doing?

Harry looks at Malfoy's reflection and sees Malfoy's eyes moving slowly up his body as Jonathan speaks about cuts and fits. Malfoy doesn't _look_ like he's faking it. There's something hungry in his expression that calls to Harry, makes him wants to lean back, to feel Malfoy against him. He shakes the impulse off and resists looking down at the bracelet on his wrist. Fucking thing.

Malfoy notices him watching and jerks his eyes away.

'These colours will be fine,' he says. 'I'll pay triple to have it ready in the next thirty minutes.'

Jonathan's eyes widen slightly but he nods and smiles, leaving the room, the curtain swishing closed behind him.

Harry's standing there in his pants and a tight top that doesn't do anything to hide his body, alone with Malfoy. He turns away from the mirror and reaches for his jeans, pulling them back on. Malfoy looks at him for a second longer, not saying anything until he too pushes the curtain aside, leaving the small fitting room.

Harry breathes more easily when he's gone and he finishes getting dressed. When he goes out into the main shop, Malfoy's looking over various fabrics and he's selected a number of patterns and colours.

Harry moves over to join him and Malfoy speaks as though he hasn't just spent fifteen minutes undressing Harry with his eyes.

'I was the owner of this place, for a little while,' Malfoy says casually, as he looks at fabrics, running his fingers over them, then discarding them.

Harry jerks his head around, though he's not sure why this information surprises him. It's becoming more and more obvious that Malfoy has had many lives in the past ten years.

'What made you leave?' he asks, sorting through possible questions and links to Malfoy's current situation and finding none. He goes with what he's curious about.

Malfoy raises one elegant shoulder. 'I got close to the client base I needed to. You'd be amazed the secrets a man will spill for his tailor.' He slants Harry a look that has a trace of the heat from before in it. 'Especially when that tailor is on his knees.'

Harry gets a vivid image of Malfoy on his knees before Harry, tape measure in hand, and he's suddenly, unaccountably furious at the idea that Malfoy had done that _here_ with other men. He shouldn't be— He couldn't—

'I need some air,' Harry growls, needing to be away from Malfoy; to be away from the intensity of his emotions.

It's the moon, he knows that. He always gets more protective this close to the full moon; always fixates more on people. This level of emotion, though—jealousy—is one he doesn't normally experience. He doesn't like it. He especially doesn't like that it's directed at Malfoy. Fucking wolf. Why should he care who Malfoy whored himself out to in the past?

Harry ignores the prickle of Malfoy's sudden anger behind him as he pushes the door open and re-enters the street. He moves over to the edge of the shop and leans against the painted brick. He tilts his head back, taking a deep breath in and closing his eyes.

He can feel the moon in the sky above, its draw stronger now. He has to fight almost constantly against it when it's this close to full, and the fight is draining.

He waits outside until the tailor pokes his head out the door, summoning him back. Malfoy's all business, eyes distant as he directs Jonathan to trim and tweak and something inside Harry whines at the loss of his heated regard. He tells it to shut the fuck up.

~

 _Le Gavroche_ is a high-end French restaurant on Upper Brook Street. Even though Malfoy's still in a bit of a mood after Harry's abrupt departure at the tailor shop, Harry's glad he was made to dress up when he walks inside. The wall panelling is a dark green, accented with feature lights and everywhere he looks is crystal and silver and people dressed in outfits that look as though they cost a small fortune.

He scans the room, standing beside Malfoy, who is waiting for the maître d' to arrive.

'Guests with John Davies,' Malfoy says as the man approaches. Harry continues to look around the restaurant, something about it feeling off the longer he stands there.

His eyes catch on one man, powerfully built in a dark grey suit who is sitting in the back corner of the restaurant. His eyes are on Harry and he raises his glass in a mocking salute.

 _Hello brother_ , he murmurs quietly, but Harry picks it up below the bustle of noise from the diners, as the man—as the _werewolf_ —watching him, had known he would.

Harry looks away quickly, knowing as he does so that he's ceding dominance to the other wolf. He can't afford to be outed in public, even wearing the glamour and identity of Hunter. He's tried his hardest to steer clear of other wolves, and been mostly successful, aside from one or two fleeting encounters. 

If he was here by himself he'd turn and leave, but Malfoy is being shown towards a table and Harry has no choice but to follow. It's as they get closer that Harry feels his anxiety spike. John Davies—the man they came here to meet—is the werewolf sitting at the table in front of him. 

Harry misses a step at the realisation. He wants to grab Malfoy and Apparate out of there, Muggles be damned. Meeting with a werewolf isn't safe, even in such a public place.

Davies smells Harry's concern and he shoots a look filled with challenging humour at him before standing and shaking hands with Malfoy. 

And then it's too late.

'Mr Markwell, I assume?' His voice is low and gravelly, seemingly coming from the centre of his chest. Up close he looks even more powerful. His hair is close cropped and streaked with silver and there's a sense of danger about him.

Malfoy nods as their hands clasp. 'Call me Darius, please,' he says. Harry doesn't like the friendly tone in Malfoy's voice, or the way Davies' hand envelopes his.

'Of course, Darius. And John, for myself.' His attention is completely on Malfoy, now, and Harry can tell from Davies' stance that he's interested. It looks like Malfoy can too. His hand lingers a little too long in Davies' and he tilts his hip slightly in a way that makes the lines of his body look sharper.

Davies' smile becomes more appreciative and he gestures Malfoy to his chair as he takes his own.

'This is Hunter,' Malfoy says, indicating Harry, as he takes a seat as well. 'He's providing me with support while I'm in London.'

'Hunter?' the wolf says, and his amusement is clear. Harry feels his anger flare in response to it. What right does this old bastard have to judge him?

'Pleased to meet you as well.' Davies reaches over the table to shake Harry's hand and it's obvious he means to cement the dominance he'd established in their initial interaction.

His grip is hard. If Harry had still been human it would have easily broken his bones. But Harry, knowing now that he has to spend the night in Davies' company—to protect Malfoy from him—has no intention of backing down before him again. He grips back, just as hard. Davies doesn't wince, but his eyes go flinty. He expected easy capitulation from Harry; by the looks of it, he expected it from most people in his life. Harry bares his teeth slightly and lets Davies see the determination in his gaze.

'If you two have finished pissing on each other, might we look at the menu?' Malfoy says, exasperation in his voice, tinged with something heavier. Harry wonders, suddenly, if Malfoy _liked_ watching the two of them.

They let go simultaneously and Davies turns a smile on Malfoy, seemingly unperturbed by the interaction. 'The food here is exquisite,' he says. 'My colleague said you were French?'

'French heritage,' Malfoy says, 'though I've been living in France for the past five years.' 

Harry watches him and wonders if that's true.

'I've visited,' Davies says. 'I found plenty of delicious things during my stay.' His smile turns knowing and Malfoy seems to read something more in it.

'Indeed,' he says, smiling in return. 'There are all sorts of delicious things to be had in France, if only one knows where to look.'

'But not yet,' Davies says, lifting his menu to peruse it.

'No,' Malfoy agrees. 'Business before pleasure is so gauche.'

Harry glances at the menu, but most of the things on it are written in a flowery French script he has no hope of deciphering. Malfoy and Davies make more small talk over the selection of dishes on the offer before a waiter finally approaches. Malfoy looks at Harry enquiringly.

'I'll have a steak,' Harry says and he can feel Davies' mockery. He wants to rip his fucking throat out. Malfoy just nods and turns to the waiter, firing off their order in clearly fluent French.

_'Je prendrai les coquilles st Jacques, et mon compagnon prendra le filet de boeuf.'_

' _Quelle cuisson?_ ' the waiter responds. 

' _Saignant_ ,' Malfoy says, folding the menu and handing it to him. Davies gives a soft laugh at the response but Harry ignores it. He's mesmerised, listening to Malfoy speak. Either he really has spent the last few years in France, or he has language skills Harry had had no idea about.

He snaps out of it when Davies orders, not quite as fluently, but still far more capably than Harry would ever have been able to. He feels almost personally affronted by that, and then wonders why he cares. Everything about the situation they're in is making him uncomfortable. Malfoy seems so interested in what Davies has to say and the werewolf is exuding an entitled arrogance that rubs everything about Harry the wrong way.

He stays silent as the two of them chat, their words becoming increasingly friendly. He can feel himself getting more and more annoyed as the time passes. The fact that Davies is clearly aware of it and clearly doesn't give a shit makes him even angrier.

When Malfoy reaches out to touch Davies' arm, Harry wants to kick him under the table, or pull him out of the bloody restaurant, away from the animal grinning at him from across the table.

The arrival of their dinner forces Malfoy to keep his hands to himself and Harry tries to focus on his meal instead of the roiling feelings inside him. He shouldn't be this close to another wolf when it's almost a full moon. He doesn't know how Davies is holding it together so well. Harry feels stripped bare, exposed, with no ability to filter himself. He can't even figure out why he's feeling half the things he's feeling.

Harry reaches for his napkin, to place it on his lap, the way the other two have, and his cuff pulls back to show the silver bracelet. He stares at it for a moment. Is the bracelet enforcing this strange urge to get Malfoy away from Davies? Is the bond trying to push him into protecting Malfoy from the wolf?

Harry grits his teeth at the sense that makes. The bond is creating that sharp, twisting feeling, that feels like jealousy, when he watches Malfoy flirting with the brawny man opposite him. 

Harry is so sick of being forced to feel things he has no place feeling. A hot anger kindles to life in his chest and he directs it at the only target he can right now: Davies. Bond or not, Davies is a threat and it's Harry's job to get Malfoy away from him.

Davies' phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out, glancing at it with a frown. He puts his napkin on the table and smiles at Malfoy. 'I need to take this. Could you excuse me for just a moment?'

Malfoy waves him off with a smile and Davies makes his way through the diners, walking with a grace that reminds Harry of a predator stalking.

As soon as Davies is near the front door, Harry casts a discrete Silencing Charm and lifts his napkin to dab at his face, despite the fact he hasn't touched his food, in case Davies turns back to watch them. First things first: get rid of Davies, then deal with Malfoy.

'He's a werewolf,' Harry mutters, his anger making his words short and hard. 'You can't trust him.'

Draco looks at Harry, surprise crossing his face, then he tilts his body away from the door slightly, as though he doesn't want Davies to know they're talking about him.

'How do you know?' Malfoy asks, looking sceptical.

 _I can smell it_ , Harry wants to say. 'I've taken plenty of them down,' he says instead. 'You learn to recognise the signs.'

Malfoy looks at him for a long moment then at the now-empty chair Davies had been sitting in. Finally, he shrugs. 'So what if he's a were. He's the person I need information from.' 

Harry stares at him, dumbfounded by the response. He shakes his head. 'You don't understand,' he says, leaning in, needing to make sure Malfoy gets the risk he's taking. 'They're dangerous.'

Malfoy frowns, a look of annoyance on his face. 'I've worked with plenty of weres. They're not different from anyone else, bit rough around the edges, maybe, but capable of just as much good and just as much bad as the next person.' He glances back over his shoulder and sees Davies coming back towards them and his face hardens as he returns his gaze to Harry.

'John has been perfectly pleasant, so drop your fucking spell and your attitude. I have a lot riding on tonight and I don't need your prejudices ruining it for me.'

Harry considers grabbing Malfoy and just Apparating out of there. Only years of training at the hands of the DMLE stops him from causing a breach to the Statute by doing that.

When Davies sits, he looks between the two of them as though sensing the tension in the air. He doesn't say anything, merely lifts his fork to his mouth again, asking Malfoy before he takes the bite about whether he is enjoying his meal.

'It's delicious,' Malfoy says, tilting his head slightly to the side as he speaks, just enough to subtly bare his neck. Davies eyes flick to it and Harry feels a snarl rise in his chest. He'd told Malfoy that Davies was a were to warn him, not so Malfoy could whore himself out.

Malfoy and Davies continue to talk but Harry finds himself less and less able to focus on their words. All he can see are the little signs of submission Malfoy is projecting Davies' way. He sits back in his chair between bites, spreading his legs slightly as though he is already inviting Davies between them. He even loosens his fucking tie, so that more of the smooth, pale skin of his neck is on show.

But the most telling of all is the way his scent changes. Malfoy is turned on. Malfoy is sitting there fucking flirting with a werewolf and he's turned on by it.

Harry feels his jealousy swirling in his chest, rising in his throat until he almost chokes on it. The only thing that allows him to stay silent in his fury is the fact that he now realises the Loyalty Bond is pushing these emotions on him. It's not real. None of it is real. He doesn't care who Malfoy does and doesn't want to fuck. He especially doesn't care if Malfoy wants to fuck an animal.

But still, he can't keep his eyes off Malfoy. Every single action Malfoy is taking, calculated to attract the interest of Davies' wolf has Harry shifting in his seat, hard and wanting, the wolf in him begging to claim what's being offered so sweetly. He forces it back into the corner of his mind. He's not an animal. He's _not_.

'Want to take this discussion elsewhere?' Davies says, as he finishes his meal. 'Leave your pet behind?'

Harry has to force himself not to let out the snarl building in his chest. Like fuck Malfoy will be going anywhere with this arsehole.

Malfoy shakes his head and Harry tries not to relax into the relief that floods through his chest. 'Thank you for the offer. It would be my pleasure to meet with you again. I'd like to discuss business further at that time.' Malfoy smiles and there's a promise in his eyes. 

Harry wants to rip Davies' head off.

'Of course,' Davies says. 'I'll set up a time. And after?'

Malfoy's smile broadens. 'I'm sure we can think of something, if the proposal goes well,' he says.

Davies' scent reeks with triumph and it takes everything in Harry not to leap across the table and rip the smug look off his face.

'I'll look forward to it, Darius,' Davies says, rising and holding his hand out.

 _Draco_ , Harry wants to spit at him as Malfoy reaches out to clasp hands with Davies again. _His name is Draco and he's_ mine!

But he doesn't. He doesn't say anything as he follows behind Malfoy, not daring to look back at Davies. If he had to see that smug face one more time…

 _Goodnight brother_ , Davies murmurs, as Harry is almost out the door. Harry stiffens, and only Malfoy's hand on his arm, pushing him forward, stops him from running back inside as Davies says, _Enjoy him while you can. I'll have your man bent over for me, panting like a bitch in heat by the next moon._

Harry focuses on Malfoy's touch and not on the instincts inside him that are screaming at him to fight. To attack. To defend what's _his_.

He shakes his head. Malfoy is _not_ his. That's just the magic and the moon and his stupid, fucking instincts getting all tangled up.

He stays close as they begin their walk down the street.

~

The moment they land back inside the apartment, Malfoy shoves him into a wall. 'What the fuck was that, Potter?' he hisses.

Harry shoves him back, sending Malfoy staggering a few feet away from him. Harry drops his glamour, needing to be in his own skin. He feels so raw. So on edge. He simultaneously wants to hit Malfoy and to drag him closer and mark him up and show fucking _Davies_ that he needs to back the fuck off.

'Fuck you,' Harry says instead, running his hands through his hair in frustration. He can't get the nervous tension out of his body. The full moon is tomorrow night and he can feel it surging in his blood, pulling at him, trying to draw him into the change already.

'Great, Potter,' Malfoy says, dropping his glamour as well. Something in Harry rumbles in pleasure to see his face and his voice matching his scent. 'Such a mature response.' Malfoy pauses, putting on an exaggerated face, as though he's thinking. 'All night, your reactions have been so exemplary. Really. An absolute paragon of Ministry pride you've been.'

Malfoy's face darkens and he steps closer again. 'What the fuck _was_ that?' he says, pushing Harry, hard. 

Harry wants to tell him to back up. He wants to bare his teeth and snarl at Malfoy and tell him what he's doing right now is a _very_ bad idea.

'What's wrong with you?' Malfoy continues, face hard and full of judgement. 'I would have thought you, of all people, would have been above all that anti-werewolf bullshit.'

Harry feels his anger surge higher at that, laced with a sickening fear. Malfoy didn't know, did he? He couldn't. 'Me _of all people_? What the hell is that supposed to mean?'

Malfoy snorts and shoves him again. Harry's back hits the wall and it takes everything he has to stop from grabbing Malfoy by the collar, spinning them around and shoving him into the wall instead. He can't deal with someone's attempt to dominate him this close to the change. The wolf won't have it and neither will he.

'I _mean_ , Potter, that you were a fucking Senior Auror. You were supposed to have fought a bloody war to stop all this prejudice, to make us all equal in one big, happy family.'

Malfoy lets go of him and steps away, running one hand through his hair, so that it falls in loose, messy strands over his forehead.

'You were supposed to be better, Potter.' Malfoy's look, when he turns it on Harry, is full of accusation. 'But you're not, are you? You're just the same as everyone else, judging based on race or appearance instead of actions.'

Harry feels a flare of rage at those words. What the fuck does Malfoy know. A memory flashes into his mind: the howl of wolves, blood and terror and the crushing helplessness of knowing he was too late. He pushes it away. He can't think of that. He can't let that memory back in.

'Like you can talk,' Harry spits back, pushing away from the wall and advancing on Malfoy. 'You and your blood supremacy. All you care about is purebloods and advancing your own kind.'

To his surprise, Malfoy laughs. It's loud and hard and there's no humour in it. 'It's been almost fifteen years, Potter,' Malfoy says. 'I've changed. I've come so, so far from that arrogant, misguided little prick.' He looks Harry up and down and his eyes are full of judgement. 'You know what's fucking sad, though?' he says, and he continues before Harry has a chance to say anything in response. 

'You haven't,' Malfoy continues. 'You're clearly the same suspicious little boy you always were, judging things you don't understand as bad and wrong.'

Harry shakes his head. He hears that piercing scream of terror again in his mind and he closes his eyes against it. He can't let it back in. Malfoy is the one that's wrong. Werewolves are monsters. They're uncontrollable. He remembers the pack of them that night in the dark, their triumph at having cornered their quarry. Davies flashes into Harry's mind, the savageness to his smile, the brutality in his strength.

'They're _dangerous_ ,' he says, needing Malfoy to understand, wanting to shake it into him. 'Werewolves can't be controlled. They're feral and they need to be kept away from people for their protection.' It's what he'd heard on a loop since the war; since the infection rates had skyrocketed due to Voldemort's campaign of terror. It's something he'd fought against, to start with. He remembered Lupin back then, held up the goodness in him as _proof_ that it didn't have to be that way.

Harry feels sick as he hears that scream in his mind again, sees the blood soaking into the ground. His fault. It was his fault. He'd been too trusting. Too ready to look the other way, to allow people whose only crime was being bitten to try and make some sort of life for themselves. He remembers the small hand, reaching desperately for him in the night.

Malfoy is shaking his head before Harry has finished speaking. 'You're wrong, Potter. I told you I know weres. I've met a number in my line of work—there are so many now, it's hard not to. The reason they go feral is because of how they're treated, nothing more.'

Harry bares his teeth, the room feeling tight and close around him. He feels the darkness rising in him, the loss that is years old but which still burns in him as though it's a fresh wound, tearing him open. 'You don't know _shit_ ,' he snarls and he feels the words rising in his throat, unwilling to be denied. He tries so, so hard to keep this memory at bay, but the words Malfoy is throwing at him now, the _justification_ for the violence fills him with a sick fury. He won't have it.

'They took my godson from me,' Harry spits, as he sees Teddy's image in front of his face, remembers holding his broken body. 'Those fucking _animals_ hunted him for sport, for some sick sense of pack dominance over a boy that smelt like a wolf but couldn't shift.' His voice catches on the last word and he has to stop, sucking in a breath and turning away.

'I've seen it again and again,' he says, his voice flat as he forces the emotion from it. 'Children torn apart in their beds, a restaurant full of carnage on a full moon, campers gutted and fed on. They're fucking _monsters_. Don't you dare make excuses for them.' 

Remus had been the exception, not the norm. If Harry had realised that sooner—had acted sooner to rid the world of werewolves—he could have kept Remus' son alive.

The silence behind him is heavy, but when Malfoy speaks, his voice is strong and certain. 'I'm sorry for your loss. I can only imagine how difficult that must have been.' 

Harry takes a deep breath and forces his emotions back under control. He puts the memories of Teddy back into the darkness—hides them away again. He can do this. He has to. He breathes out and turns back to Malfoy. But Malfoy's not done.

'I'm not excusing any of the deaths, but your Ministry makes them pariahs,' Malfoy continues, that same certainty in his voice. 'They get pushed to the edge of society, cut off from friends, family, work and any sort of acceptance. They're given no support to manage their condition.' Malfoy looks at him, no quarter in his face. 'Do you know that Mungo's won't even take them in, post-bite? Some of them die from their infections.' 

Harry vividly remembers the tiny Healer team of two, forced to treat him, the private ward hiding him away, the Obliviation that had been done afterwards. They'd been horrified to treat his wounds; had eyed him like he might spring from the bed at any moment and tear their throats out. It had been his first introduction to what the rest of his life would be like if he ever let people know.

'Little wonder they go feral,' Malfoy said, voice hard. 'Wouldn't you?'

 _I didn't_ , Harry wants to shout at him. _I haven't_. But he remembers plaster torn from walls, mirrors smashed, his hand around Ron's throat when he'd tried to force Harry out of his house one night a few months in. Feral had been a good word for him, before Ron and Hermione had come back. Before he'd recognised the Burrow as a safe place. Before he'd started to come to terms with the fact that his family would be there for him, would help him manage what he was now.

'What do you care?' Harry growls as he turns away from Malfoy and moves over to the windows. It doesn't help him to stand there, looking up at the moon through the patchy clouds, but he does it anyway.

Malfoy is silent for a long moment, but Harry can see him, reflected in the glass. His eyes are dark and unreadable as he watches Harry.

'I had a… friend,' he says, after a moment, and his voice is much quieter than it had been. 'He… didn't cope well, after his change, but he was a few years into it when we met. He'd done his best to make a life for himself, but every time he tried to get ahead…' Malfoy's voice trails off and Harry thinks he's finished.

'He was on your fucking Ministry's Transformative Creatures Register,' Malfoy says and the anger is back in his voice. 'Seth was on your damned register, voluntarily, and do you know where that got him?' 

Harry almost doesn't need him to continue. He's seen the story play out so many times. He feels the freshness of his lingering grief over Teddy tugging at him, twining with the loss in Malfoy’s voice.

'It got him kicked out of his job in a Muggle bar. Public safety risk. It got him raids on his apartment, day and night, in case he was having some fucking bestiality orgy in there or something, I don't know. He was trying _so hard_ to make a life and do you know where he ended up, Potter?'

Harry wants to tell him to stop. He knows where this story ends. He can't think about more death tonight.

'He ended up dead. Dead from a fucking Auror AK because he couldn't afford his suppressant potion anymore and he turned one moon, when I wasn't home to help him cope with it.' Malfoy's voice is almost vibrating with anger and Harry can hear the pain layered through it. The scent of it hangs heavy in the air. It mixes with Harry's own anguish until he's almost suffocating with it.

'It's criminal what we do to them,' Malfoy growls, 'hunting them like dogs instead of helping them.' He takes a deep breath and Harry can hear the shake in it. He doesn't turn around. He can't. Malfoy is wrong. People—good, innocent, ordinary people—need to be protected from werewolves and that's the end of it.

'Like I said, I'm sorry for your loss. The fact that that happened is horrific. But nothing that an individual does gives us the right to persecute a whole race. So you can take your prejudices, and keep them the fuck away from me. And stay the fuck away from Davies as well. I don't need you screwing up this job for me.'

Suddenly Harry is tired of fighting. He needs to be away from here, away from the aggravation of Malfoy's presence and the words he spits which are so raw that Harry feels flayed open by them. He needs to take his memories of Teddy and hold them close until he can put them back inside where they belong.

'I need to go away for the next two nights,' he says, not turning to face Malfoy.

There's silence behind him and Harry takes that as an agreement.

'You'll be here when I get back?' he asks Malfoy's reflection in the glass. He knows there's something cowardly in the way he's ignoring Malfoy's words, as though he hadn't spoken. But he can't bring himself to deal with everything Malfoy just raised. Can't have that conversation with him. Not now, not so close to the moon. Not with Teddy's face fresh in his mind.

 _Not ever_. What is he thinking? Malfoy can never know about him. He pushes all of that away and focuses on Malfoy's reflection.

Despite the churning emotions inside him, he needs to know that Malfoy will still be here when he gets back. He's got too much riding on this case to lose it to Malfoy disappearing on him. The idea of it makes something twist in his chest. Harry tries to tell himself it's the thought of not making a case, of losing his chance to get back into the Ministry. But he knows it's more likely that it's the damned Loyalty Bond forcing him to want to be close to Malfoy again.

Malfoy nods, once. 'As long as that bracelet stays on your wrist,' he says, 'I'll be here when you get back.' 

'And you won't see Davies?' Harry asks, unable to help himself. He turns around to face Malfoy, knowing he's pushing it after everything Malfoy's just said to him. But this, this is not negotiable. As much as everything in him is screaming that he needs to get out, to get away, to go to his pack and lick his wounds and weather out the moon, he can't leave knowing that Davies will be around Malfoy in his absence. He just can't.

Malfoy is silent, his eyes dark as he watches Harry. 

'Promise me,' Harry says. 'I heard everything you said. Just don't make contact with Davies without me there? Owl me if you need to see him. I'll come immediately. But don't go alone.' He's aware that his voice is almost pleading, but he can't help himself. Everything in him screams against the idea of Malfoy seeing the werewolf again.

Malfoy considers him for a long moment, and when he nods his agreement, Harry is certain that he's doing so for his own reasons.

~

Harry Apparates inside the wards of the Weasley's front garden. It's late, after eleven, and he wants to go straight up to his room—Ron's old room—which smells of home and comfort and family. All he needs right now is to bury himself under blankets and lick his wounds. He needs to forget the moon exists, forget Malfoy exists, and forget the madness that is his life now.

But when he opens the door, Bill is standing there, and Harry realises he must have still been up and had heard the crack of his arrival.

'Hi, Harry,' Bill says, reaching out and drawing him into a hug. There's no trace of surprise in his voice. Harry spends most of his moons at the Burrow, weak and shivering through his suppressant potions as Molly fusses over him.

Bill holds him tight and Harry lets himself relax into the embrace, letting the familiar sound of Bill's heartbeat relax him slightly.

But then Bill pulls back and frowns slightly. 'You smell like something strange,' he says. 'Something dangerous. Is everything okay?'

Harry hesitates, thinking about the Bond and the fact that he can't open his mouth about Malfoy, even if he wants to.

'I met another wolf, tonight,' he says and Bill's eyes widen in concern. 'And—' Harry hesitates, but he knows this is a family tempered by grief, knows Bill can help him bear it. 'And I just—' he takes a deep breath, 'I just talked about Teddy and it all feels very real right now, and _fuck Bill_ —' His voice catches in a sob and Bill's arms are around him a second later.

Harry lets himself be held as he tries to make his thought into some semblance of order.

'Are you alright?' Bill asks, speaking softly into his ear.

Harry nods within the embrace of Bill's arms and then shrugs. He has no idea how he is. 'It was… a lot.'

'Come inside,' Bill says, stepping back, but keeping an arm around Harry's shoulders. 'I'll make you a cuppa.'


	5. Chapter 5

The morning after the moon, Harry goes back to Malfoy's apartment at the Marriott as soon as he can force himself to move. He still feels weak and every part of his body aches, but the fury that had filled him, the burning need to fight and claim and rage, has passed. Instead he feels empty, as though some part of him is missing.

The suppressants always leave him feeling like that. The two times he'd gone without them—that first moon where they'd had to see whether he would turn, and one other time, at Grimmauld, when he'd just been so absolutely _sick_ at the thought of taking them—he'd woken up completely differently. He'd felt alive, revitalised, as though taking his other form under the moon had renewed him. This time he feels both his lingering grief and his conflict over his conversation with Malfoy before he'd left shadowing his exhaustion.

Harry half expects to find the apartment empty. What he sees instead is Malfoy toiling away at his makeshift desk, just like any other day. He looks up at Harry's arrival and then back down at the papers in front of him, as though Harry hasn't been gone for the past two nights.

'Hi,' Harry says awkwardly, approaching the table. He'd thought a lot, while he'd been wrapped up in bed, about what Malfoy had said, about the truth woven into some of his points. He'd wrestled back and forth, trying to reconcile someone who passionately advocated for werewolf rights—had lowered himself to be with a wolf—with the prejudiced, arrogant boy he'd gone to school with. He'd tried to take what had happened to Teddy out of the picture; tried to be objective. He couldn't. It hurt too much. Still, after all these years.

When he thinks about Malfoy's story, he wavers between thinking it's all some big con and Malfoy just knows the exact words to push his buttons, and remembering the emotion in Malfoy's face and in his voice. He was full of anger and grief when he talked about his boyfriend—Seth. It had seemed genuine. Yet, Harry just can't make that fit with his picture of Malfoy.

'Hello,' Malfoy says briefly in response, his eyes flicking up and then back down to his papers.

'I kept the bracelet on,' Harry says, casting about for anything to say, to take Malfoy's attention away from what's in front of him.

'And I stayed here,' Malfoy says, laying down his pen and leaning back in his seat as he looks up at Harry.

'I'm sorry,' Harry says. He knows he needs to say this. If he wants to keep building trust with Malfoy, this can't stand between them. He spent a sleepless night fighting the pull of the moon and feeling his body warp and tremble as he tried to figure out what to say to Malfoy. 

'I was out of line, with Davies. The—' He takes a deep breath, trying to figure out the best way to explain himself. He knows what some of Malfoy said was valid, even if he doesn't—can't—agree with all of it. 'The things you said were right. The reason a lot of weres are dangerous is because they're not taught how to be safe.'

'And we set up a system that forces them away from any possible support,' Malfoy says.

Harry nods, but then continues, needing to make sure Malfoy understands his full point. 'Davies, though, it's not because he's a were,' Harry says and Malfoy's face darkens again. 'It's not,' Harry insists. 'He's dangerous and he wants you.'

To his surprise and annoyance, Malfoy laughs. 'I know he wants me, Potter. That's the whole point. That's the reason I chose that glamour for Markwell. Davies likes dark-haired, pretty subs. I'm a bit old for him in that form, but I needed to balance Markwell's cover with him being of an age to have believable networks.'

Harry stares at Malfoy, floored by the response. 'You're going to fuck him to get what you want?' he asks, all of his former sympathy and internal turmoil over Malfoy's apparent change disappearing in a flash of anger. Just the thought of Davies having Malfoy, of Davies bending him over and having him 'panting like a bitch' has his fists clenching as fury heats in him. It's not as strong as it had been two nights ago but it still rises hot and fierce.

Malfoy shrugs, as though it's nothing. 'Preferably not,' he says. 'Not that he's not good looking, but I prefer my fucks to have more meaning behind them.' While Harry is digesting that thought and the ramifications of it, Malfoy continues, 'But I'll do whatever I have to, to get what I need.'

'And what exactly do you need?' Harry says, trying to keep the anger out of his voice at the thought of Malfoy whoring himself out to Davies. He doesn't think he succeeds, from the way Malfoy's eyes narrow.

Malfoy cocks his head to one side. 'I need to know if he's in the trade I want to be in,' he says after a pause. 'And if he is, I need him to connect me to whoever is running the show.'

'And what trade is that?' Harry asks, the sparks of his former training taking over and pushing his anger down, trying to make room for logic, just for a moment. He hates how hard he has to work for things like this, things which used to come as naturally as breathing.

Now Malfoy raises an eyebrow at him, and it's mocking. 'I'm not sure why you think that's any of your business, Potter,' he says archly, 'but it's not.' With that he returns to his paperwork, leaving Harry very clearly dismissed.

Harry considers arguing with him, forcing his attention back up from what is in front of him, but he still feels sore and tired from the night before and from the resurgence of his anger the moment he was back in Malfoy's presence. 

Instead, he makes his way to his room, changing out of his jeans and pulling on a pair of joggers and an old Cannons t-shirt that used to be Ron's.

He hears Malfoy's soft huff of derision as he comes out into the main room wearing it, but he ignores it, slumping down onto the couch with a sigh. He flicks on the television and spends most of the rest of the day ignoring Malfoy as he watches it and dozes intermittently. 

He glances at the copy of the _Prophet_ on the coffee table just long enough to see the moon tally has been updated on the monthly front page count.

_Dead: six human, two wolf._  
_Possible infections: three._

The sight of it stirs the same guilt he always feels; for not being able to stop the deaths, and for the possibility he might contribute to them.

He drifts into restless dreams of running under the moon. At one stage Malfoy wakes him and puts a plate piled high with ham and cheese toasties on his chest, before he goes back to his desk.

Harry ignores the way this small gesture tugs at him, his instincts telling him this is caring, it's pack building. It's bullshit, Harry knows. Malfoy is likely playing the exact same game he is, creating a rapport with Harry to dull his attention to what Malfoy is doing in the background.

Harry skips his workout routine that evening and Malfoy seems happy enough to call it an early night. They've barely spoken all day, but bit by bit as time passed, Harry could feel the tension in the air easing as they slipped back into each others presence. It's a strange sort of relaxation. He simultaneously doesn't want it and finds it comforting. He doesn't have the mental energy to try and unravel that, so he accepts it, letting himself unwind.

Malfoy doesn't bother with a shower before bed. Harry hears him brushing his teeth then a rustle of undressing and a light clicking off. He decides he doesn't need one either. He smells like the Burrow at the moment, like Molly's embrace that morning as she'd sent him off, whispering to him to look after himself. He feels a little too raw to be able to let go of that security just yet.

Harry settles himself in bed, letting the darkness and the quietness of the room around him soothe him. He's so tired and he can feel sleep pulling at him. It always takes him a few days after a full moon to shake off the exhaustion.

He's on the edge of sleep when he hears it, the slow slide of movement against material, a sigh into the night.

Harry tilts his head slightly to focus on the noise. It comes again and Harry debates for just a second before he closes his eyes, allowing a picture to bloom in his mind; an image of what is going on in the bed on the other side of the bathroom. He doesn't stop to consider whether he should listen. He still feels vulnerable, the tug of pack, family, connection, pulling at him. The strange, one-sided intimacy of listening to Malfoy pleasure himself soothes something inside Harry that doesn't want to be alone.

He imagines Malfoy spread out on his bed, hand on his cock, slowly rubbing it. He can hear the slight squelching sounds that tell him Malfoy has a fist full of lube and the thought makes his own cock harden slightly. He reaches down to cup himself, not moving his hand, just letting the weight of it sit there as he listens to Malfoy's movements.

Malfoy seems to be taking his time tonight. Harry lies in the dark as he listens to Malfoy working himself over. Every now and again his movements speed up, the rustling of the sheets and the gasps joining them. Harry can hear Malfoy getting closer and closer to the moment of release before he stops, all movement ceasing as he pants heavily. 

The first time it happens, Harry wonders if he came without making any sound, and he feels a stab of disappointment, followed by a feeling of self-loathing at the fact that he's lying there in the darkness with his hand on his own cock feeling disappointed that he hasn't heard Malfoy get off.

But a moment later, Malfoy's movements start again, just as slow as before. Within a few minutes, he's worked himself back up into a panting, twisting mess on the sheets, the sounds still so quiet that Harry doubts someone with normal hearing would be able to catch them if they were standing outside Malfoy's room with an ear pressed to the door.

But to Harry the sounds are crystal clear and after the second time it happens, it hits Harry what Malfoy is doing. He's edging himself, and the thought sends a surge of arousal through him that has pre come dribbling from his cock. Harry slides his thumb through it, the sharp scent of sex in the air driving his need higher. He lifts a knee to tent the blankets and starts touching himself in time with Malfoy's movements, drawing out the sweet torture in the same way.

He doesn't stop to consider whether this is a good idea. Whether the wolf wants it, or the bracelet, or whether this is something he wants. He can't. Feeling is what he needs, not thinking. Just forgetting and letting his mind go still for a moment. Malfoy owes him that, doesn't he? All of this is his fault, in one way or another.

The first time he has to hold himself back is agony, but he understands the rush of it, as Malfoy's movements resume. Harry moans softly at the sensation of touching himself again, and already he feels closer to the edge.

Malfoy does it four times, before his movements speed up and don't stop, the quiet sounds rising in intensity, as though he can't help himself. Harry wants, suddenly, to see Malfoy in person, to taste him, to watch him make those beautiful sounds. He knows he shouldn't, knows it's fake, but that doesn't matter as he speeds his own movement up to match Malfoy. He fists his cock almost roughly as he focuses his attention on the room just a few metres away from his own.

He can hear Malfoy's orgasm approaching in the way his movements take on an almost frenzied intensity. Harry moves his own hand to match and then freezes, shock and confusion rushing through him as he hears the words Malfoy whispers as he comes. They're broken, bitten-off words that fall from his lips in an almost soundless gasp.

' _Yes. Fuck. Ah—Potter._ '

~

It's almost two weeks before Malfoy hears from Davies again. He and Harry fall back into a strange, tense sort of routine while they wait. Every second day, Malfoy dons another face, another name, and they move around the country. Malfoy is men, women, old, young, rich, poor. He doesn't exclude Harry from the trips, but neither does he give him any information about why he's doing what he's doing. 

Harry doesn't push him, content to watch him, mentally cataloguing the names, faces and locations he comes across. Against his better judgement, he finds himself becoming more and more intrigued by the life he sees spooling out before him. For the most part, Malfoy doesn't let Harry get anywhere near the people he's meeting with, but Harry's an Auror, and a werewolf to boot. He's getting plenty of info from each of the meetings. He just can't seem to find the connection between them all.

On the morning they hear from Davies, Malfoy has glamoured into a version of himself that Harry thinks he could have become, if his post-War fortunes had turned on him. He's skinny to the point of emaciation, with scabs around his mouth and a yellow tinge to his pale skin. He looks like a potions addict at the very end of the cycle. Harry's arrested enough of them to know that without intervention, death would come soon for Malfoy in this form.

Malfoy's face is full of distaste as he comes out of his room, having donned a set of grimy joggers and a hoodie that looks like it used to be yellow and is now a dirty brown. However, when they Apparate a few streets away from where Malfoy is headed, his whole demeanour changes. It's like a switch has been flipped and Draco Malfoy isn't behind the eyes of the young junkie in front of him anymore.

Harry has seen it happen again and again but it never ceases to fascinate him. Malfoy doesn't just wear other people's faces; he _becomes_ them. Everything about him changes to fit the form he's wearing. It's not as noticeable when he's Markwell, a persona that is a lot closer to Malfoy's looks and demeanour. But in a form like this, Harry could walk right past Malfoy and have no idea who he is.

Harry watches from the shadows, an Auror-strength Disillusionment Charm on himself, as Malfoy mingles among the people who live in the corners of Knockturn Alley. Several greet him by name—the wrong name, but still by name—and it's clear he's been here, has worn this face here, before.

Malfoy doesn't say much that Harry can make sense of, but he files away every name Malfoy asks about and every reference to the movement of something Malfoy refers to only as 'cargo'.

Harry lets his thoughts drift as he watches Malfoy, returning back to familiar paths; things he's pondered over the last few weeks as he's watched this process occur again and again. He wonders if the face Malfoy shows him—if the persona of 'Malfoy'—is who he really is, or whether that's just another role he's playing because it's what Harry expects to see. 

The idea makes him just as uncomfortable as it had the first time he'd thought of it. The thought that nothing about what Malfoy projects to him is real makes something inside Harry shifty and restless. He wants to grab Malfoy and shake him and force him to show Harry what's real. Malfoy shouldn't be able to hide from him. Malfoy can't be so different now, that Harry doesn't know him.

When they get back to the apartment, Malfoy spends almost an hour in the bathroom, and when he comes out, he's dressed far more casually than Harry's ever seen him. He's not in his usual trousers and button up, or full, pressed suit. Instead he's wearing a pair of soft-looking grey joggers and a long-sleeved cream coloured v-neck that hugs his body in a way Harry finds hard to look away from.

He walks past Harry's form, sprawled out on the couch and Harry expects him to go to the table and sit down to work, but instead he moves into the kitchen and pulls down a bottle of wine. Harry looks over at the clink of glasses and Malfoy raises one to him, a clear question in his eyes. Harry considers for only a moment before he nods. 

This is different. This is a break in their routine. Normally, Malfoy works at his table and Harry watches telly or works out. Apart from mealtimes or him listening to Malfoy get off in the shower, they don't generally interact while they're in the apartment.

The change both worries and interests him.

Malfoy pours two glasses and moves over to the couch. He hands Harry a glass and Harry sits up slightly to take it.

Malfoy sits in the space his feet had just been, and he's so close that Harry's toes are almost touching him. Harry stares at him, surprised further by this proximity. The only time Malfoy voluntarily approaches him is to Apparate them. 

They watch the telly for a few minutes, Malfoy sipping at his wine as he stares at the screen. Harry can tell his attention isn't on the crime drama that's playing though; there's a preoccupied air to him, as though he's lost in thought.

'I spent some time like them,' Malfoy says after a while, still not looking at Harry. 'After I jumped parole. Not in Knockturn, of course, but around. It's surprisingly hard to stay in the upper end of society when you're cut off from your inheritance, your residence, and any chance of employment.'

Harry looks across at him, but Malfoy seems determined not to meet his eyes. 

'You were set up with a job,' Harry says, unsure how to respond, and latching onto the one fact he's sure of, as he thinks back to those days, and to what he remembers from Malfoy's file.

Malfoy snorts and looks across at him at last. 'I would have ended up dead if I'd stayed in that hellhole of a job your lot put me.'

Harry frowns, not understanding.

Malfoy looks at the telly, and Harry wonders if he's going to expand on his comment. His voice is conversational when he speaks again. 'I was Crucio'd, in that shitty, minimum wage job the Ministry put me in.' He flicks a glance at Harry and then looks away again. 'More than once.'

Harry opens his mouth—to say what, he doesn't know—but Malfoy goes on.

'I stayed though,' he throws a glance at Harry again. 'I stayed. I deserved it, I thought. Even after Azkaban, clearly I hadn't paid enough, and this was more of my penance.'

Harry doesn't know how to respond to Malfoy's words, to the image it brings rise to in his mind, of Malfoy writhing in pain on the floor and thinking he deserved it.

'Do you know when I decided to leave, Potter?' Malfoy says, and he turns to look at Harry. His face is hard, something brittle in his gaze.

Harry shakes his head, silent, not sure what he can say, not sure if he wants to hear what's coming. His earlier thought comes back into his mind—his musings over whether anything Malfoy showed him was _real_. He can see an aching rawness in Malfoy's eyes, a trauma he's not yet healed from and he feels a strange relief, to know that maybe what Malfoy shows him is something true; something that he doesn't show to anyone else.

'I decided I needed to disappear after I had a visit to my shithole rented flat,' Malfoy continues, his voice flat, emotionless, 'from one of the Auror force's finest. You probably remember him—Jeffries? There was a picture of him and you in the paper once. You looked chummy enough.'

Harry feels himself go cold as Malfoy says Jeffries' name. He knows what happened. They all do. Jeffries had been one of the worst, it turns out. One of the Aurors that The Purge had cleansed from their ranks.

'Ah,' Malfoy says, still conversationally. 'I wonder how many he carried his rape threats out on, before he was finally outed and given what he deserves.'

'He didn't—?' Harry says, voice dry as he imagines a younger Draco, Crucio'd at work, coming home to be assaulted by an Auror.

'The way he touched me made it clear he would, next time he saw me,' Malfoy says, and his eyes take a on a distant look before he snaps back to the present.

'So you made sure he never saw you,' Harry says, his voice a murmur.

Malfoy nods and Harry feels a strange satisfaction, tinged with sadness and anger, to have that piece of the puzzle filled in. What a way to have to learn to hide in plain sight. He feels a tug of sympathy for Malfoy and he doesn't try to push it away.

'Jeffries got ten years,' Harry says, not knowing what else to say.

'No thanks to the Aurors,' Malfoy says in turn, challenge in his voice.

Harry thinks back to those days, to the media scandal that had been dropped on the Ministry—names, dates, assaults, miscarriages of justice—the papers had been full of it for weeks. They called it The Purge and at the end of it, a whole lot of people who'd used to patrol Azkaban were locked in it.

'So you lived on the streets for a while?' Harry asks, unsure as he does so whether he's gathering evidence against Malfoy, or whether he just really wants to know how Malfoy managed to get from where he was to where he is today.

Malfoy leans back in his chair and looks at the telly again as he takes a sip of his wine. 'I had to. I didn't have anywhere to go. My wand was being traced and I had no money.' He curls his lip slightly as he says the word trace and Harry feels a flicker of shame at his failed one on their first meeting.

A hundred questions fill Harry's mind. How did Malfoy get an untraced wand? What did he have to do to survive? Did he turn to crime? Is that how he got to where he is now? As they race through his head, Harry hears the buzz of Malfoy's phone.

Malfoy hears it as well and he places his wine glass on the coffee table in front of them as he stands and walks to the dining table, picking up his phone with a sound of satisfaction as he reads the message.

'We're meeting with Davies again tomorrow,' he says, tapping something out in response. 'Office complex in Wembly.' His voice sounds satisfied and Harry remembers the innuendo laden conversation Malfoy and Davies had had at the restaurant. Malfoy had talked about a business proposal. Harry wonders if the office location means Malfoy will be getting his chance to pitch.

'I need this to go well, Potter,' Malfoy says, slipping his phone into the pocket of his joggers as he walks back to the table and collects his glass, draining it. He looks down at Harry, still sprawled across the couch, and there is no trace of the openness he'd displayed a few minutes before.

'Understand?'

Harry nods, not saying anything. He understands. Whether he can comply with it is a different matter.

~

Harry doesn't sleep well that night. Memories of their last interaction with Davies keep floating through his mind. He remembers Malfoy's flirting and the way his scent had changed the longer he was around Davies. Harry could smell as it got heavy with arousal and he'd wanted to rip out Davies' hungry eyes as he'd watched Malfoy. The thought of facing the other were again, of him getting his hands on Malfoy—his _scent_ on him—has Harry tossing and turning all night.

Then there's everything Malfoy had told him; his treatment at the hands of Aurors Harry had worked alongside, had considered his friends—good guys. Was it little wonder Malfoy had done what he'd done? Had he really been given any choice? 

Round and round it goes in his mind. Harry can't reconcile his view of Malfoy and his need to bring him in, against this new information. Escaping abuse doesn't justify moving into a life of crime. Even if Harry feels sorry for him, Malfoy shouldn't be able to get away with what he's doing now.

Harry deliberates that morning, unable to stop from fixating on the thought of Malfoy and Davies in the same room together, and the inevitable seduction he knows Malfoy will undertake. He fights against his instincts as he works out after breakfast. The wolf is howling at him, trying to force him to put his claim on Malfoy, to tell Davies to back the fuck off.

Malfoy orders lunch and Harry watches him, unobtrusively, as they eat. He can't ask. It would be fucking weird, and decidedly against his 'be normal' motto. The wolf growls, tense and angry within him. 

'Would you like to say it?' Malfoy says, dabbing at his mouth, before placing his napkin on top of his half-eaten sandwich, 'Or are you just going to stare at me all day?'

'I'm not staring at you,' Harry says, looking down at his own sandwich, barely touched. It's not like him to pick at his food, and the fact that Malfoy will know that is an equal mixture of annoying and some emotion that calms the wolf just a fraction.

'Potter, you spent seven years watching me like a creep. I think I know what it feels like. Spit it out. What do you want?'

'I did not watch you like a creep,' Harry objects, annoyance rising in him. 'If anything, you were watching me.'

Malfoy rolls his eyes. 'Fine, we were both creepy kids. Why are you staring at me _today_?'

Harry huffs, knowing Malfoy isn't going to let it go. He'd made his decision before lunch. He can't be around Davies any other way and he knows it. His weakness—his _instincts_ —infuriate him, but it's this or he all out tears into Davies the moment he looks at Malfoy wrong.

'You should wear this,' Harry says, pulling the sleeveless shirt he'd slept in from where it had been sitting on the chair behind him and placing it on the table. Harry looks down at his food after he lets go of it. He can't meet Malfoy's eyes after a statement like that. But something in him _needs_ him to say it. Needs Malfoy to do it.

Malfoy glances down at it, then looks back up at him, unimpressed. There's a long silence before he speaks.

'Potter, I'm not wearing your unwashed clothes,' he says, but Harry can hear the slightly faster pace to his heartbeat. Harry shrugs and nods at the same time. He still can't look at Malfoy. He feels a sick sense of wrongness at what all of his instincts are screaming at him. _Mark him. Scent him._

'Is this because you want to mess with Davies?' Malfoy asks, and his scent sharpens. Harry can't quite read it. It smells like… interest?

He latches on to the thought. Yes, it's because he wants to mess with Davies. Malfoy doesn't need to know the real reason why. Harry doesn't want to examine the real reason why.

'You want him to be interested in you, don't you?' Harry asks, looking up to meet Malfoy's eyes. There's a trace of heat in them and Harry ignores his reaction to that. 'He's a werewolf. They're incredibly possessive. It will make the wolf in him jealous. He won't be able to resist the idea that you've been claimed by another male.' 

He can feel the wolf's desperate need for Malfoy to wear the shirt rising again. He needs their scents to be mingled next time Malfoy is around the other were. 

Malfoy lifts an eyebrow. 'I'm very aware of how possessive weres are,' Malfoy says, and Harry remembers his story about Seth. He wonders, again, how long they'd been together and just what else Malfoy knows about werewolves. 'You want me to wear your clothes so I smell like you, and he thinks we're fucking?'

A niggling, instinctual part of Harry's brain whispers that the message would be stronger if Malfoy was filled up with his come. If the scent of their sex was all over him. He almost shivers at the thought, unable to stop his eyes from dropping to Malfoy's neck, thinking how it would look with the marks of his teeth imprinted there, high up, so the other wolf would know exactly who Malfoy belonged to. 

He forces those thoughts away angrily. They aren't him. They're the wolf. He isn't a damned beast.

'Take it or leave it,' Harry says, standing abruptly from the table and turning away.

Malfoy doesn't belong to him, and he wouldn't want him if he did.

~

It's another hour before Malfoy knocks on Harry's door to tell him they're leaving. As soon as Harry opens the door to him, he can tell Malfoy is wearing his shirt. He has to force himself not to take a step forward and bury his nose in Malfoy's neck, breathe him in as he backs him into the wall and ruts against him.

The thought of something of his against Malfoy's skin sends heat surging through Harry. The way Malfoy's scent has changed, blending together with Harry's, has created something heady and intoxicating. He forces himself not to move. Not to react.

'Ready?' he asks instead.

Malfoy nods, the faintest of tinges to his pale cheeks, before he dons his glamour and bends his arm for Harry. 

Harry glamours as well and then steps in close to take Malfoy's arm. He can't help himself. He breathes in deeply, nostrils flaring subtly as he takes in their combined scents. He wants to whimper at the smell of it. Malfoy's eyes meet his, sharp and bright for an instant, before the hook of Apparition grabs him and jerks him into the void.

They land in a garage, the third Harry has visited in the last two weeks. Malfoy grabs the keys for a flashy, deep green convertible and slides comfortably behind the wheel.

'This thing is like a Slytherin wet dream,' Harry says, and frowns as he hears the low rasp to his voice. He focuses on the garage door opening and the air he needs, to be able to clear the way he and Malfoy smell together from his mind.

Malfoy flashes him a small smile, but it's tinged with sadness. 'It made me think of Pansy,' he says quietly, then he revs the engine and reverses them out and up onto the road in a squeal of tyres. Harry doesn't ask. Every attempt he's made over the past few weeks to question Malfoy about his former friends or former life has been met with misdirection or flat out silence. The fact that Malfoy has even mentioned Parkinson's name is a miracle and Harry doesn't want to push his luck.

They only drive for ten minutes before they're pulling up in front of a multi-storied building with the words CTI emblazoned across it.

Inside, Malfoy tells the receptionist he has a two o'clock appointment with John Davies and is directed to the lift and sent straight to the eighth floor. The panel in the lift reads Central Trade and Import, London Directorate.

There's a buzz and the doors open to another reception area, this one more lavishly appointed. 

The receptionist looks up with a smile and says, 'Good afternoon Mr Markwell, Mr Davies will be with you in just a moment. Please take a seat.'

He directs them to a pair of plush chairs in one corner, but Malfoy smiles, thanks him and remains standing, walking to the far wall to inspect a piece of art that makes Harry think of some of the more gruesome murder scenes he's inspected in his time.

Harry hears Davies coming before he sees him and he turns to face the door off to the side of the reception desk. He refuses to have the other wolf at his back.

A moment later, Davies strides through the door, looking every bit as imposing as he had at the restaurant a few weeks before.

'Darius,' he says, stalking towards Malfoy, a sharp-edged grin on his face. Three paces away his stride falters slightly as he takes in Malfoy's scent and he shoots a narrow-eyed look at Harry, his first acknowledgement of him.

Harry lifts his chin in a silent challenge. _He's mine. You don't touch him._

Davies' lip curls slightly in an unspoken threat, but he turns back to Malfoy, clasping one of his hands in two meaty paws.

'So good to see you again,' he greets, his touch caressing.

'It's good to see you, too,' Malfoy says, tilting his hip so his body is angled towards Davies.

Harry has to fight the snarl that wants to rise in his chest at the sight of it. Malfoy is _his_. Malfoy is marked as his. He shouldn't even be looking at the other wolf, let alone offering himself. _Not mine_ , he tells himself, trying to force the wolf and the bond to listen to him. His roiling emotions don't calm in the slightest and he hates how out of control that makes him feel.

Davies scent changes to something rank and challenging in response to Harry's unspoken threat. He turns, gesturing towards his office, deliberately putting his back to Harry as he places a hand on Malfoy's hip, gently steering him in the right direction. Malfoy doesn't protest the touch. Harry wants to rip Davies' hand off.

He follows silently instead. When they reach Davies' office, he gestures Malfoy in first and then begins to shut the door. Harry's palm hits it, hard, and he glares up into Davies' eyes, making his absolute willingness to tear him to pieces over this clear.

Davies smiles and the grin is full of teeth. They stare at each other for a long moment, neither making the first move.

'Is there a problem?' Malfoy asks, turning away from the floor to ceiling windows of the office, where he's been taking in the view of the city. 'I require Hunter with me at all times,' Malfoy says, and there is a touch of censure in his voice. It's just enough that the words 'at all times' convey a sense of intimacy.

Davies stiffens at the words, and the insinuation, and Harry pushes the door at him, a sharp jab which sends him back half a pace.

Harry sees Davies' fingers flex and he bares his own teeth for an instant before he turns his attention back to Malfoy and takes up a position at the edge of the room.

Malfoy moves over to the desk and takes a seat in front of it, spreading his legs in a way that makes his trousers stretch subtly over the outline of his cock. Harry can just glimpse it from where he's standing and he sees Davies' eyes drop to take the movement in as well.

Davies' glance flicks to Harry and Harry can tell the mixed messages Malfoy is sending him are confusing him. _Good_ , Harry thinks bitterly. _Take my messages, too, and fuck off._

'So,' Malfoy says, and Harry draws his attention back to the two men facing each other over the desk. 'I trust you've had sufficient time to review my proposal and my credentials?'

Davies inclines his head, nodding at the folder on the corner of the desk, the same CTI logo from the outside of the building emblazoned on it.

'You're an impressive man, Darius,' Davies says. 'What you have built in France, in such a short time, is to be commended.'

Malfoy smiles briefly and Harry can smell a pleased self-satisfaction layer his scent. There's a depth to it, as well, as Malfoy watches Davies, the rich undertone of arousal. Harry can feel his anger rise higher in response to it. Malfoy is turned on by Davies and the idea of that makes Harry simultaneously sick and furious. Davies' reaction makes his anger rise higher. The werewolf relaxes back in his seat, as though bathing in Malfoy's regard.

'I'd like to talk terms today,' Malfoy says, leaning back as well as he spreads his legs just a touch more. 'I'd also like to verify the product.'

Harry grits his teeth as the pheromones in the room strengthen. The two of them may as well be fucking each other. His whole body is tense as he glares across at them. He knows Davies is aware of his anger. The smug bastard reeks of self-satisfaction.

'Of course,' Davies says, as though oblivious to the messages running through the room. 'I'll need to refer you to a meeting with our Head of Operations to confirm your terms, but the gist of your proposal has been viewed favourably.'

Malfoy leans forward and Harry doesn't need to be able to smell the anticipation on him. 'Full market share under your procurement avenues for the French market?' he asks. 'Cross-border imports with shared client bases?'

'Indeed,' Davies says with a grin that broadens into a leer as he leans forward as well. 'Our Head of Operations asked me to bring you to them personally to verify the product. We would also like to inspect yours, of course. We can't flood the market with faulty goods.'

'Of course,' Malfoy says, but he leans back in his chair, as though disappointed. 'I was hoping for a verification today, though.'

He tilts his head to one side and scrapes his fingers down the long sweep of his neck, as though thinking. Pale red lines are left in the wake of his movement. It's so incredibly transparent what he's trying to do, but Harry can't keep his eyes off Malfoy. Davies can't either.

'There's nothing you could do to help me out, is there?' Malfoy says and the scent of his arousal is suddenly stronger, filling the room. 

Harry breathes it in, imagining dropping to his knees before Malfoy and burying his face in Malfoy's groin, rubbing up against the musky scent of him before taking Malfoy's cock in his mouth, swallowing him down. He bites his cheek, the sharp pain only heightening the urge, and sees Davies stand. 

Harry takes a step forward, a silent snarl rumbling in his chest, but Davies just reaches into his pocket for his phone. He stands behind Malfoy's chair and leans down over his shoulder, his face so close to Malfoy's neck that Harry has to dig his nails into his palms to stop himself from walking over there and slamming Davies' head into his desk.

He holds his phone in front of Malfoy and taps at it.

Harry hears Malfoy's breath catch as he looks at whatever is on the screen. 

'You like that?' Davies asks, voice a low rumble.

Harry tries to force himself to put aside all the werewolf bullshit and do his actual job—his former job, anyway. He knows this is important. Knows, instinctively, that whatever Malfoy is looking at right now is crucial to the case Harry is building against him—still building, no matter what his stupid instincts are demanding from him and what sort of sob story Malfoy spins for him.

Davies swipes across and Malfoy's eyes widen slightly, the only sign of his reaction to what he's seeing. 

'How about this one? This is one of my favourites.'

Harry takes a careful, silent step, and then another, until he's in the line of sight of Davies' phone, and then he freezes. The image Malfoy is looking at—the image on the screen of the phone—is of a girl, no more than ten, with her hair done in beautiful ringlets, tied with bows, and a look of utter helplessness in her eyes.

As he watches, Davies flicks again and there's a picture of a boy, dark-haired. Younger this time. Eight maybe. His eyes are wide and terrified. An image slams into Harry's mind, of Teddy, just a bit under this age, of the terror of his final moments left imprinted on his face. Harry wants to vomit with the force of the memory.

All of the pieces of the conversation click into place and Harry realises that the 'product' the two of them have been talking about importing is children. Malfoy is a fucking child smuggler. Harry feels a red hot rage fill him, a flood of sick disgust underlying it. A snarl pushes its way past his lips, deep and vicious. 

Malfoy and Davies both turn to look at him and Harry feels an urgent push at his mind, a message forced through his barriers. _Potter—Harry—trust me. I can explain. Please._ Malfoy's eyes are wide and pleading and Harry knows it's Malfoy's voice in his mind. He forces the presence out, slamming up his shields against the unwanted intrusion.

He takes a step forward, tension running through him as he curls his hands into fists. This stops now. The investigation. Everything. Malfoy is going away for good. Davies too. If he doesn't kill the both of them first.

 _Harry, please. I promise you. There is a reason for this. Just give me five minutes and I'll explain_. Malfoy's voice slices back into his mind, cutting through his barriers, an edge of desperation to the push of it. 

There's no sign of that desperation as he says out loud, voice drawling and annoyed, 'Hunter, stand down. I'm busy.'

Harry's eyes flick back to the phone for just a moment, to see a fourth picture on the screen. The look on Davies' face is smug and Harry takes another step forward, unable to stop himself. All he can think is Teddy, Teddy, Teddy. It drums through him. He'd been too late that time. He can't be too late again.

'Nothing here interests me,' Malfoy says, in a tone of supreme boredom. He reaches up to where Davies is still standing behind him, leaning down over his chair. Malfoy places his hand on Davies' face, turning the wolf's head back towards him. Davies' gaze leaves Harry's and he looks down at Malfoy. 

'They're too young,' Malfoy says, looking into Davies' eyes, with a hint of a disappointed pout. 'Is this the only product you have on offer? I was led to believe there was a range.'

Harry freezes, trying to process the words that had been in his mind, the desperate edge to them, and the way Malfoy's scent has changed as he looks at the pictures, from aroused to disinterested. The mixed messages don't make sense to him. It's enough— _just_ —to stop him from ripping Malfoy apart.

Kids. Fucking _kids_. Harry can feel every protective instinct inside himself, clamouring to be heard. It isn't just the wolf this time. Children. Hurt and vulnerable and alone and taken from their families. He can't let Malfoy do this. No matter how good his reasons. He feels like he wants to be sick. He growls again, unable to keep his fury in check. He can't stand for this. He _won't_.

Davies turns back to him with a frown as he stands straight, slipping his phone into his pocket. Harry doesn't try to hide his disgust.

'You're a fucking animal,' Harry spits. 'You're filth.'

Davies advances a step and Harry bares his teeth.

'Hunter,' Malfoy says. 'That's enough.' His tone is sharp and it contains just a hint of the desperation that his voice in Harry's mind had held. It's so subtle that Harry doesn't think Davies would register it.

'John and I are conducting business, and if you don't like it, you can find a new employer.' He stares Harry down, something of Malfoy in Markwell's dark eyes asking Harry to hold on, for just a second longer. Harry manages to crank his temper in, just an inch. Just enough. Malfoy gives him a minute nod.

'Thank you for seeing us, John,' he says, turning back to Davies with a smile. 'I'll look forward to seeing a greater range of product at our next meeting. Perhaps an in-person viewing might turn up more favourable results.'

The look Malfoy gives Davies as he says this is more of a leer and Harry bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood. Davies' look of faint suspicion disappears as he leans in to murmur in Malfoy's ear. Harry hears him, just like Davies had meant him to.

'Come alone, next time. I'll give you a private showing. Just you and me.' He rubs his cheek against Malfoy's for just a moment as he draws back and Malfoy gives him a wink and a look that promises things that Harry can't think about right now, or the last thread of his restraint will break.

'I'll look forward to it,' Malfoy says as he turns and leaves. 

Harry follows him, seething rage warring with disgust and betrayal. He can't even tell what it is that is holding him back right now. At no time in his career would he have walked out of a room after having seen those images. 

He lifts a hand to shove the door open and the glint of his bracelet catches his eye. He narrows his focus to it. Is Malfoy using it—using the bond—to control him? The thought makes him even more furious. What other reason would he have to imagine he could trust Malfoy, especially after what he's just seen?

The moment they're inside the lift Harry grabs Malfoy by the arm, his grip brutal. He doesn't know whether he's going to rip Malfoy's head off or force the truth from him and in that moment, he doesn't care.

Malfoy's other hand is already in his pocket and too later Harry realises his hand must be on his wand as he feels a hook to his guts and Malfoy whirls them into Apparition.


	6. Chapter 6

The moment they land, Harry rips Malfoy's wand from his hand and throws it across the room. He grabs Malfoy by the throat and slams him against the wall, fingers digging into the sensitive skin. 

'Explain,' he growls through gritted teeth, one small thread of the control he'd had as a human allowing him to pause for just a second. 'Now.'

Malfoy's eyes are wide and dark, Markwell's face twisting in a way that makes it hard to tell what Malfoy is thinking. Harry can't read this face nearly as well. He pulls out his own wand and lays it against Malfoy's temple.

'Take your glamour off,' he snarls, and he knows his voice is still filled with disgust over what he saw in that room. 

Malfoy raises his hand slowly to place it over Harry's, one finger touching Harry's wand as he whispers the word that dissolves his disguise. 

Harry gets rid of his own glamour then throws his wand to the floor. He won't need magic for what he's going to do to Malfoy.

'Potter,' Malfoy says, as Harry's face re-emerges. 'It's not what you think.' His voice is raspy and his face is turning red. Harry can feel Malfoy's heartbeat pounding against his palm and his tightens his grip. 

Malfoy makes a choking sound and Harry feels a stab of satisfaction. Just the thought of what those children must be going through; Harry remembers raised voices, small spaces, sharp blows; he remembers fear and pain and helplessness. Blood. So much blood. No child should _ever_ have to experience that. The people who do it are the worst kind of monsters. Malfoy could burn in Fiendfyre and it would be nothing compared to what he deserved.

'Give me one reason not to rip your throat out,' Harry hisses, and in that moment he absolutely means his words. 

Malfoy's heartbeat spikes, but he still doesn't panic, doesn't fight back. The wolf in Harry is close to the surface. He knows fighting back will end badly for Malfoy. Very badly. 

He hopes he tries.

'Harry,' Malfoy says and Harry's fingers twitch at the use of his first name. What right does Malfoy have? 'I'm not like that—not one of them.'

'Bullshit,' Harry hisses, and he leans in closer to Malfoy, so that their faces are just inches apart. He can feel the heat of Malfoy's body against his and the scent of him is strong and heady. The lingering pull of Malfoy's arousal just sends Harry's disgust and fury spiralling higher. He'd started to think Malfoy had changed.

'You were talking about buying and selling _children_. Children, Malfoy. Fuck, I knew you were Death Eater scum, but this—'

Harry pulls Malfoy forward and slams him back against the wall. His head thuds against it and Harry hears the breath rush from him. He gasps and his face looks pained, still reddening, but he doesn't try to defend himself. Doesn't try to stop Harry.

'Investigating,' he croaks, swallowing convulsively against Harry's fist around his throat.

Harry's about to slam him against the wall again when the word breaks through the fury inside him.

'What?' he says, not loosening his grip.

Malfoy tries to draw in a breath, but his chest heaves ineffectually. 'Fuck, Potter,' he rasps. 'I'm _investigating_ the pricks.'

Harry loosens his grip, just slightly, and Malfoy heaves in a breath. He closes his eyes for a moment and just breathes.

'Talk,' Harry says, not taking his hand away from Malfoy's throat. He doesn't know if he believes Malfoy, or if he thinks this is just some crazy ploy to get Harry to let him go so he can go for his wand. 'You have two minutes to convince me why you shouldn't end up dead or in Azkaban.'

'I'm a journalist,' Malfoy says, looking Harry in the eyes, his gaze unwavering, his voice still hoarse.

Harry shakes his head, fingers already tightening on Malfoy's throat again. He's never read Malfoy's name in print. What does the idiot take him for? As if he wouldn't have noticed that and remembered it.

'Veritas,' Malfoy says, hands twitching and half raising as though he wants to grab Harry's fingers and pry them away. But he doesn't.

Harry shakes his head again, that word tickling at his mind, pushing against his anger and his frustration and his instinct to protect children—protect cubs. He's heard it before. Where has he heard it before?

He forces himself to think. Malfoy is going red again, his chest working ineffectually as he tries to draw in the air he needs.

Then it hits him and Harry feels his anger slip slightly; his furious certainty falters. He loosens his grip completely and backs up, taking a few steps away from Malfoy.

'Bullshit,' he says again, but the word has less certainty in it.

Malfoy raises a hand to his throat and rubs at it slowly. There's a red imprint from Harry's hand, angry against his skin.

Malfoy nods confirmation of his words and swallows with a wince.

'You can't be Veritas,' Harry says, mind reeling as he tries to regroup, to pull in his anger and disgust and his need to hurt someone for what is being done to those children. He needs to think, to be clear. The wolf wants to hurt, but he needs to be the man, just for a moment.

Veritas is a legend in the Ministry. A ghost. Five of the biggest cases they'd cracked in the last decade had been due to investigations undertaken and released to the press by a person known only as Veritas— _Truth_.

'Why not?' Malfoy says, and there's such casual, unshakable confidence in those words that Harry can't help but hear the truth of them. Connections start to form in his mind, things falling into place the same way they had when he was an Auror.

Malfoy had jumped parole about twelve months before Veritas had first had something printed. Malfoy had faces, names, _lives_ sprinkled all over the country. Malfoy had always had a thing for sneaking around the place and spying.

He thinks about what he knows of Veritas—Ron speaks of the journalist with an awe he usually reserves only for his mentions of Hermione.

Veritas has broken stories on illegal potions testing on house elves, bribes at the highest Wizengamot levels, outdated and inhuman sedation practices in the Janus Thickey ward at St Mungo's. 

Then a thought occurs to Harry and he feels Malfoy's certainty seep into him.

'The Purge,' he breathes, looking at Malfoy with new respect. 'Jeffries. You did the research that got him locked up for what he did to you—you cleaned our whole house for us.'

'For what he did to everyone, not just me,' Malfoy says. 'But yes. I was particularly proud of that one.'

'Fucking hell,' Harry says as he rubs a hand through his hair. Malfoy is Veritas. Malfoy is the truth that has kept their whole society on its toes for _years_. 'I need a drink.'

He turns to the cupboard, tracking the sound of Malfoy's movements behind him as he crosses the room to retrieve his wand. When no immediate crack of Apparition follows, Harry relaxes slightly.

'Whisky or wine?' Harry asks over his shoulder. Everything feels surreal. He feels unbalanced from the sharp shift in his emotions, feels empty of his rage, but unsure what to put in its place.

'Whisky,' Malfoy says, moving towards him and taking a seat at the dining table. There's a clack of wood on wood as he places Harry's wand on the table in front of him.

Harry pours the drinks and sits opposite Malfoy, placing his glass in front of him, smoke curling off the surface of it.

Malfoy takes a sip and grimaces as the drink burns his undoubtedly sore throat. Harry doesn't feel like saying sorry. Not yet. He needs to hear more first.

'So what exactly are you investigating?' he asks.

Malfoy raises an eyebrow at him. 'Is this Senior Auror Potter asking, or my bodyguard?'

Harry scowls at the reminder that he's not what he used to be—as if he could ever forget it. 'I'm not an Auror anymore. I just want to know what the hell I've gotten myself into.'

'You haven't gotten yourself into anything,' Malfoy says, voice cooling as something in his face shutters. 'You can still leave. I do most of my research alone. If you'd been anyone else from that shitty company you work for, you probably wouldn't have given a damn about what Davies was showing me, and we'd all be getting on with life.'

Harry waves a hand, dismissing the point. 'I'm in it now, and there's no way you're getting rid of me after what I saw today. So what exactly are you looking into?'

Malfoy grimaces and for the first time, revulsion and anger sour his scent, making it sharp and bitter. 'It's a case I've been on for the last two and a half years, but I got a break a few months ago, someone who could connect me to Davies. He's not the head of it, but he can get me there.'

'What _is_ "it"?' Harry asks, getting impatient.

'A child smuggling ring,' Malfoy says, lip curling. 'Squib kids. That's why the bastards haven't been caught. The kids aren't on anyone's radar.'

Harry frowns, mind working quickly as he considers that. There were a handful of missing children cases that his team just hadn't been able to get anywhere on. They'd been Squib kids, every one of them, and the Aurors hadn't been able to get any sort of trace on what had happened to them.

'They had no magical signatures,' Harry murmurs, remembering, and opposite him, Malfoy nods.

'And so your Aurors gave up, because Merlin forbid you could actually accomplish something without magic.' 

Harry wants to be angry at that comment, but he knows it's true. He knows they failed those children. There's a pile of cold cases that he looks through—looked through—every year, on the anniversary of his appointment. Those faces are some of the ones that haunt him in the dark of the night. 

'And the Muggle police aren't even aware of most of the cases,' Malfoy continues. 'Where one of the parents has Muggle connections, they've been brought into the investigation a few times, but these kids aren't registered on any sort of database. The police don't have fingerprints or photos or National Insurance numbers. They're blind and useless.'

Malfoy finishes the last of his drink and sighs. 'Sometimes, the parents don't even report it. Some of the pureblood families hide Squibs. They've grieved the children, from what I can tell, but the scandal of the investigation of a Squib child missing from their family is just one step too far.'

Harry stares at him, shocked by those words, unable to fathom a parent not moving heaven and earth to find their child.

Malfoy holds out his hand and _Accio_ s the bottle of Firewhisky to himself. It slaps into his palm and he pours himself another measure.

'Fucking purebloods,' he growls. 'We're half the damned problem.' He downs the amber liquid and blows the smoke out in a convulsive huff that flows over Harry, the bitter tang of it mixed with the smell of something uniquely Malfoy.

'How many kids are we talking about?' Harry says, trying to get his thoughts in order—trying to reorient his worldview of the past few weeks, from Malfoy as suspect to Malfoy as unlikely hero.

'I've tracked fourteen disappearances in the last three years,' Malfoy says. 'Aged eight to eleven at the time of disappearance. They're all pre-Hogwarts age.'

'Is that what's in the notes you're always writing?' Harry asks and Malfoy hesitates for a moment, then nods.

'Can I see them?' Harry asks.

Malfoy tilts his head to one side and considers Harry. 'Why?' he asks finally.

Harry feels his earlier anger stirring again and he almost growls at Malfoy. 'Because I want to help, you knob. I don't know if it's escaped your notice, but I used to run a fucking Auror team and I know a few things about investigating sick fucks.'

Malfoy snorts. 'Sick fucks doesn't cover the half of this operation. As bad as Davies is, I'm pretty sure whoever is running the thing is far, far worse.'

Harry considers Malfoy, eyes narrowing slightly as he thinks over that statement, comparing it to what he has observed. 'I thought you had a thing for Davies? You've certainly been playing it like you have.'

Malfoy grimaces, his distaste obvious. 'The things I've heard about Davies, he's lucky I haven't AK'd him yet. When I turn my article in, his image will be front and centre. He's the trafficker for their syndicate. You saw the name of the building? CTI: Central Trade and Import. He has access to transport networks all over the country and across Europe. He's a right bastard to the kids too.'

Something about Malfoy's statement seems off and Harry can't help but push. 'You're trying to tell me you despise him and you've been faking it? You sm— seemed like you wanted him,' Harry says, unable to quite let go of the behaviour he'd observed. His instincts don't lie to him. Malfoy wants Davies, is turned on by him. Harry reminds himself that Malfoy's story could still be spin, elements of truth woven through the lies.

Malfoy's voice is flinty and his gaze is hard when he speaks. 'I don't know if you've noticed, Potter, but I am _very_ good at making people think all sorts of things about me. Your Werewolf 101 course probably didn't cover this level of detail; I'm sure it was more about where the heart is and how to take the easiest kill shot.' Malfoy's tone is derisive, as it always is when he speaks of the Ministry. 'But some particularly well-adjusted weres can use scent to read mood.'

Malfoy crosses his arms and leans back in his seat, as though daring Harry to argue with him. 'I use arousal because it's an easy scent to fake and it tends to mask most others. If the wolf is into you and you play it right—use the right poses and gestures to trigger his instincts—you can have him begging at your feet and ignoring every other reading he gets from you.'

Harry ignores the ramifications of Malfoy's knowledge—of his clear ability to manipulate werewolf instincts. Malfoy doesn't know about him, and won't find out about him. He has nothing to worry about. He just needs to get better at ignoring the games Malfoy is playing with Davies, that's all.

He forces himself to think instead about what he's just heard. 'You can't fake arousal,' Harry objects. He knows. Malfoy smells exactly the same in front of Davies as he does when he gets himself off in the shower at night. There's no spell or pheromone he can release to simulate that.

'No, I was turned on,' Malfoy agrees easily. 'It just wasn't him I was thinking about.' Something in his gaze heats in a way that is totally at odds with the conversation they've been having and Harry can't keep eye contact. Instead he finishes his drink and reaches for the bottle to pour himself another.

'So, what's the next step?' he asks in a change of subject he knows is clumsy, but hopes Malfoy won't call him out on. 'Who is Davies working for? Who else is involved?'

Malfoy considers him for a long moment and Harry wonders whether Malfoy has ever worked on a story with someone else. He thinks of the visits he's been observing over the past few weeks and wonders what sort of role those people played in the various stories he now assumes Malfoy has been working through with them. He wonders if they were suspects or confidantes. 

'You want to be my partner, Auror Potter?' Malfoy asks, and there's something lightly teasing in his voice.

'Not an Auror,' Harry says automatically.

'No,' Malfoy muses. 'You're not.' He seems to make up his mind and reaches into his pocket to pull out a bundle of tiny papers. He taps them with his wand and they unshrink.

Harry recognises the cramped handwriting he'd gotten plenty of glimpses at over the past few weeks, but had been unable to make anything of.

Malfoy reaches across the table and touches Harry's hand. His fingertips are warm and soft and Harry looks down at the touch, surprised. Then Malfoy murmurs something and Harry feels a gentle tingle of magic across his skin.

He looks up at Malfoy to see his tongue dart out as he wets his lips, then Malfoy looks down, withdrawing his hand in a motion that's almost a caress. He pushes the papers towards Harry. Harry looks back at his hand; he can feel the faint press of Malfoy's fingers still and some part of him wants to raise them to his face and see if he can scent Malfoy's touch on his skin.

Instead he looks down at the pieces of paper in front him. When he does, he lets out a low whistle.

'You sneaky bastard,' he murmurs. The information in front of him has changed completely. The strange meandering sentences and empty statements are gone. Instead there are photos, case files, surveillance reports, communication logs.

'You've been working on this every night, right in front of my face,' Harry says, spreading the files out in front of him, unable to help the tone of approval that leaks into his voice.

'This, and other files,' Malfoy says, a smirk hovering on his lips. 'And no, before you ask, I won't be sharing the contents of the other files and the spell is coded to my voice and intent so don't even think about trying to sneak a look.'

Harry snorts softly. 'You would have made a good Auror,' he says as he begins to study the documents in front of him. Three of the photos jump out at him immediately. They're some of the older ones, cases from years ago. He feels a stab of faded guilt as he looks at them.

'Indeed,' Malfoy says, breaking his concentration. 'If only I didn't have a dirty great symbol of my evil branded on my arm.' There's something brittle in the light-hearted statement and Harry looks up at him, cocking his head to one side.

'Symbol of stupidity, maybe,' Harry says. 'Or gullibility. But not evil.' He looks down at the information spread out before him—the documentation of lives destroyed. ' _This_ is what evil looks like.'

Malfoy purses his lips, but he doesn't argue the point, and some of the sharpness leaves his scent as he sits back in his chair, watching Harry turn his attention back to the documents.

They sit for hours, the level of the bottle of whisky dropping slowly as Malfoy brings Harry up to speed on his research, his leads and his theories. It doesn't amount to a lot. He has a name for the head of the whole setup—'Mother'—and has identified that at least two others must be operating at the same level as Davies, though he doesn't have a fix on their identities.

As for the children, it seems they've been sold, some more than once, into private homes, or to the highest bidder. Harry doesn't need to ask what for. He knows.

'If you can pinpoint the identity of "Mother" and make sure Davies is the one with the transport logs, the Aurors can smash this case apart,' Harry says at last, shuffling the papers into a pile and standing, wincing as his hip flares with pain, reminding him he's been sitting still for far too long.

'Yes, Potter,' Malfoy says with an eye roll. 'I know. I've done this many times, with exactly zero input from you.'

Harry flips him a two-fingered V and refills his glass, moving over to the couch and slumping into it with a groan. The whisky burns through his system faster now that he's a were, but it's still left him feeling pleasantly tipsy.

He's surprised when Malfoy comes to sit beside him on the couch. Malfoy is decidedly less steady than him. It's late. They've missed dinner, but Harry's not hungry. Usually by this time of night, Malfoy is wanking in the shower. Harry considers mentioning that to him but then he has the thought that that's probably the booze talking and decides not to.

'What made you decide to do all this?' he asks instead, a flap of his hand indicating both the conversation they'd just had and Malfoy's whole life.

Malfoy makes a slightly annoyed face, as he puts his feet up on the coffee table and leans back against the cushions. '"All this", as you so eloquently put it, was revenge, to start with,' he says as he swirls his whisky idly in his glass, looking down at it. 'I just wanted to fuck Jeffries over, the way he had me. I had to figure out a way to do it that wouldn't put me in Azkaban, so I found people who could sell faces and names.' 

Malfoy takes a sip of his drink and his voice is quieter, when he speaks. His eyes are still on his glass, the liquid in it swirling slowly. 'But the more I looked, the more I found things that were wrong. And I was so sick of people using ignorance as an excuse.'

Harry watches Malfoy and feels the way those words resonate inside him, how often he'd thought exactly the same thing.

'Why did you go to the papers, instead of the Minister?' Harry asks. It's something that he's wondered over the years, every time the media breaks another big story before they have time to get ahead of the case. 

Malfoy looks over at him and Harry sees the deep-seated resentment that lives inside him.  
'The Ministry has not done one single thing to endear itself to me, Potter,' Malfoy says. 'Azkaban nearly killed me and when I got out, Ministry workers made it their mission to finish the job. I had no guarantees that if I went to the Ministry, the whole thing wouldn't be buried and me with it.'

He shakes his head and finishes his drink, leaning his head back and blowing the smoke up into the air in a smooth stream. Harry looks at the pale column of his throat, shining in the dim light from the kitchen on the other side of the room. He imagines crawling forward and rubbing his cheek there, rubbing it over the place Davies had touched. He imagines, just for a moment, burying his face in Malfoy's neck, right where it meets his shoulder, and breathing him in, licking along his skin, biting lightly. Not enough to break the skin, just enough to leave a mark.

'The papers are always happy to publish,' Malfoy says, continuing his former thought. Harry shakes himself out of the daydream. He can't tell if the effects of the bond are getting stronger or if it's the Firewhisky, or the simple fact that it turns out Malfoy's not a lying criminal after all. But all of a sudden Harry's attraction for him, which had been simmering, deliberately ignored in the back of his mind, has risen to the fore.

'They're also happy not to ask too many questions, provided the facts I bring them check out, and the story is juicy,' Malfoy says, seemingly oblivious to the path Harry's thoughts have taken

'Ron has such a crush on Veritas,' Harry says in a change of subject he knows is strange, but with the whisky buzzing under his skin, he's unable to bring himself fully out of his musings about the taste of Malfoy's skin. 

He can't help the hint of a smile that the thought of Ron brings to his face. Every time Veritas breaks a big scandal Ron crows about it for days. He's a brilliant Auror, Harry reflects, not for the first time, but there's an element of chaos about him that places him firmly as Fred and George's brother.

'He's going to be ropeable when he finds out it's been you all this time.'

At those words, Malfoy's face hardens and he looks at Harry. 'You can't tell anyone, Potter. Ever.' His words are slow and deliberate and Harry has no doubt he means what he says. 'I'll _Obliviate_ you if I have to. The only reason I can do what I do is that nobody has any idea who I am. Veritas is a hundred people and no one, all at once. The moment a thread gets pulled and pieces start to be linked, what I have will fall to pieces.'

Harry looks at him, and blinks. He wants to tell Malfoy he doesn't have a hope of being fast enough to _Obliviate_ Harry, but he supposes that's beside the point.

'Would that be so bad?' he asks—the first thing that comes to mind.

Malfoy's mouth twists in bitter self-depreciation and he pushes himself off the couch, clunking his empty glass down heavily on the coffee table. 'No one wants the truth from the likes of me, Potter.'

He takes a few steps towards his room and then turns back. 'I'm serious,' he says, and his eyes glint in the semi-darkness. 'You tell anyone who I am, once this bond is dissolved, and you won't like what happens in return.'

Harry just watches him and after a moment, Malfoy turns around, his door shutting behind him with a finality that echoes through the rest of the apartment.

It's not until Harry is lying in bed that night, on the very edge of sleep, that he makes the final connection. One last motivation, something that has been niggling at him since his first meeting with Malfoy, falls into place and he nearly curses out loud.

He considers going into Malfoy's room, waking him up and asking him just what _the fuck_ he thinks he's doing. His earlier mellowing towards Malfoy curls uncomfortably in his chest as he assimilates this new truth.

Malfoy had no reason to allow Harry to be around him—no reason to risk the exposure of his greatest secret. The fact that he'd permitted Harry to be his bodyguard, even with the Loyalty Bond swearing him to silence, was ludicrous. Harry had known it from the beginning, but had ignored it in favour of being thankful that Malfoy had let Harry stay around and gather information about his actions.

Harry stares up at the ceiling in the darkness and wants to laugh at how simple it all is.

No, Malfoy being in proximity to Harry is ludicrous, unless, of course, Malfoy is an investigative journalist. Unless the story of just why Harry Potter had suddenly quit the Aurors to live the life of a reclusive bodyguard operating under a glamour was one that any paper in Britain would kill to publish.

Harry turns his head towards Malfoy's room. If he concentrates hard, he can hear the measured rise and fall of his breathing. As he listens to Malfoy sleep, Harry wonders, for the first time, who is the predator and who is the prey.

~

Things feel different between them the next morning. New. Harry doesn't quite know what to make of it. On the one hand, Malfoy's revelations of the day before have moved him firmly out of suspect territory. He thinks about all the evidence he's gathered about Malfoy's comings and goings, the tentative theories he'd started creating. None of it comes close to the truth about who he is—what he does.

On the other hand, Harry's instinctive offer to work with Malfoy to blow the case open is underscored by the fact that Malfoy is dangerous to him. Malfoy's whole life is built around noticing details and making connections. Eventually, Harry knows he'll slip up. Eventually, Malfoy will find out what Harry is now, and then it will all be over for him. There's no way Malfoy won't out him. Harry Potter being a werewolf is a story no journalist could pass up.

Harry's mood darkens as he thinks of all the times in their past that Malfoy's deliberately acted to make Harry's life harder. Sure, they seem to be getting on okay now, but that doesn't mean Malfoy won't take the opportunity to land a scoop. The prejudices against werewolves might not be law, but they're the next best thing. Even he—the wizarding world's darling boy—won't survive being outed as a wolf.

The thoughts run through his mind, chasing each other in endless, frustrating circles as he wakes up slowly, pushing his covers off and stretching his body in stages to loosen up. He has no more luck coming to an answer than he had the night before.

When he opens the door to his room and pads out into the living room, dressed in a pair of soft joggers and a black sleeveless t-shirt, his preferred dress in the mornings given how hot the apartment runs, Malfoy is already up.

He's standing by the coffee machine, dressed and pressed for the day, as usual. A mug of tea sits, steaming gently, on the end of the table. Harry can smell that it's steeped perfectly to his liking, and is full of sugar.

'Thanks,' he says with a small smile as he picks it up and sips at it, closing his eyes and sighing at the taste.

'I was already making a pot,' Malfoy says, as he does every morning, despite the fact that all Harry's seen him drink is coffee, and that right now he's foaming milk for himself, ready to pour it into the bitter brew in his cup.

Something about that, the tiny continuation of the routine they've established together, settles Harry. He can't let Malfoy find out his secret, but he doesn't have to decide what to do right now. He has time. 

'Full English?' Malfoy asks as he picks up the phone to order their breakfast. Harry nods, despite the fact that he's had the same thing every morning since they'd arrived. He's never been able to go past the novelty of being able to have a bite of everything, after watching Dudley so often with his steaming mound of food and waiting for crusts and offcuts.

Harry moves over to the windows and sits in his favourite chair. He has a view out over the water from it, and watching the sun rise is something he has a new appreciation for, after spending the last few weeks with Malfoy. Harry's never been an early riser, but somehow having someone in his space and the sounds and scents of drinks being brewed in the background makes the practice more appealing.

He sips his tea as he watches the glint of light over the water and the movements of a city beginning to wake up. He lets his mind move slowly over his memories of the day before, processing the information he'd seen in Malfoy's files and weaving it in amongst everything else he'd learned. Malfoy's research was thorough, Harry would give him that. He'd put some of the Ministry's best to shame.

The beep of a key card and Malfoy's soft murmur as he drops the wards at the door signal the arrival of their breakfast. Harry waves a hand to set his glamour but he doesn't bother getting up. He'd tried to be polite, in the first few days, but he'd just made the wait staff uncomfortable by hovering over them and trying to help them with the trays of food. 

He listens to the quiet exchange of words as Malfoy greets the person, then the squeak of the tray as it moves into the room. It's as the door clicks shut behind the trolley that Harry stiffens. The response he's hearing is wrong. The voice is deep. He knows them all by now, and he's never heard this one. And the scent is off. The man with the trolley smells like the street outside, cold and fresh. The breakfast staff always smell like the end of a long shift, like food and linens and cleaning products.

He jerks his head around to see Malfoy walking towards the table, still saying something inane about the weather. Behind him a white-clad waiter is reaching into his jacket, his body tense with an intent that Harry recognises immediately.

He barely registers what he's seeing before he's moving. His mug falls from his hand and he's vaulted over the chair and is half way to Malfoy before he hears it shatter on the wooden floor.

Malfoy glances up at the sound and his eyes widen as he sees Harry rushing towards him. The man behind him has moved just as quickly and Harry sees the glint of a knife as he closes the gap. 

Harry grabs Malfoy's arm and rips him forward, twisting and pulling him away from the blade. It's already descending and Harry has a second to regret the fact that he didn't cast a _Protego_ and a Stupefy before he feels the blade punch home. 

He grunts at the impact to his lower back and hopes like hell it's not big enough to pierce through to his guts. Accelerated healing be damned, he wouldn't enjoy that one.

Then the adrenaline floods through him and he turns, grabbing his attacker by the throat and lifting him from the ground, throwing him back against the wall. He hits it, eyes wide and panicked for a moment before he slumps to the ground.

Malfoy turns to Harry immediately. 'What the fuck was that?' His voice contains none of the fear Harry might have expected from most people. He's already turned his attention away from Harry and is on the way to his would-be killer.

'We have to leave,' Harry says, reaching behind himself to the knife, still embedded in his back. He clenches his jaw and pulls it out, grunting with the pain it causes. He feels a flood of blood leave the wound with it and he knows removing the blade goes against every type of medical advice, but damn it, he'll heal and he doesn't imagine Apparating with a knife in your back is particularly advised either.

He concentrates for a moment then calls his wand to himself. He vanishes the blade and conjures a quick field patch over the wound to stem the blood.

' _Accio_ Harry Potter's things,' he says, as he turns to look again at Malfoy, holding out his hand to catch his bag and beginning to shove items into it as they fly to him. Malfoy is kneeling over the unconscious man on the floor and Harry can't tell what he's doing. He has his hand to the man's temple.

'Malfoy,' Harry barks. 'I'm serious. We have to go. Now.'

Malfoy waves at him without moving and Harry takes a step towards him; he'll drag the bastard out if he has to. He feels the hot trail of blood soak into the back of his joggers and he breathes against the pain of it. It's not important right now. Leaving is. 

Clearly they've been made, and Harry can't help but feel a trace of guilt that this is his fault—that Davies has sent someone after them because of the way Harry reacted at the meeting the day before. But he doesn't have time for those sorts of thoughts.

Just as Harry is about to grab Malfoy and force him up, he stands and performs the same spell Harry had, calling all of his belongings to him and directing them into a suitcase with a neat flick.

'Where?' he says, and in that one word, Harry knows Malfoy's done this more than once.

'We need somewhere completely unconnected to this case and to Markwell,' Harry says. Malfoy nods immediately and reaches for Harry's arm. 

'Wait,' Harry says, and he turns back to the room. He grips his wand and utters the standard crime scene Cleaning Charm he'd learned as a rookie. ' _Restituere_.' Immediately the entire apartment begins to tidy and straighten itself. Within moments, Harry knows there won't be a trace of them left, not even a fingerprint.

'What about him?' Malfoy asks, tilting his head at the unconscious man.

Harry frowns, looking at him. In his former role, he would have had him brought in for questioning. Now he can't afford the time or the complications. And he isn't willing to go as far as killing him. Not yet. He ignores the hot growl of anger from inside himself at the thought of what could have happened if it had been Malfoy who had taken the knife.

'We don't have time to question him,' Harry says, glancing at the clock on the wall. 'And we can't risk taking him with us.' It's been four minutes since the attack. If there are backups, which he's sure there will be, he and Malfoy have approximately three more minutes before their wards come under attack.

Malfoy nods and raises his wand. Harry tenses, but all Malfoy says is, ' _Obliviate_.' The man twitches and then is still again.

Malfoy turns back to Harry and reaches for his arm again.

'Wherever we're going,' Harry says. 'You can't take us straight there. Apparition can be traced, if you catch the trail quickly enough.'

Malfoy raises an eyebrow and his look of disdain speaks volumes. He tightens his grip on Harry's arm and then they're whirling into space.

Harry grunts with pain when they land. He can feel something in his back tear open further and he stumbles into Malfoy, slumping into him for a moment, gripping his arms to keep him upright.

'What's wrong, Potter?' Malfoy asks in the semi-darkness, and for the first time that morning, there's a hint of concern in his voice.

'Nothing,' Harry says, as he pushes himself upright and steps away. 'I'm fine.'

His eyes adjust to the dim light and he realises they're in another of Malfoy's garages. Malfoy eyes him a moment longer but Harry doubts he can see much.

'Change your glamour,' is all Malfoy says as he pulls the keys to a dark green jeep from the lock box and presses the button to unlock it with a flash of lights.

Harry does as he's told, hoisting his rucksack over his shoulder and wincing at the flare of pain it sends down his back. The area where he's been stabbed feels hot, like it's already inflamed, which he knows is impossible. It's barely been ten minutes. He tells himself not to worry about it. It will heal. Everything else has.

He throws his bag into the backseat of the jeep and climbs in, re-setting his glamour so that he looks like a young guy, out for a bit of fun. He pushes back into the seat, trying to put pressure on the wound, and has to bite back a gasp at the increase in the pain.

'Where are we going?' Harry asks, but Malfoy just shakes his head. He's changed his glamour too, and he looks similar to Harry, short, spiked hair, an unseasonal tan and a hoodie and jeans. It's a strange look on him.

He brings them out of the garage fast and Harry realises they're not in London anymore. He sees a sign, and then another, indicating they're in Leeds. He can't help but feel impressed at Malfoy's strength, that he could not just jump that far, but successfully Side-Along.

Malfoy guides them quickly and easily out of the city and Harry keeps watch in the mirrors of the car, checking for any signs of pursuit. He thinks they've been quick enough—and the would-be assassins would've had to have a trace expert with them to be able to make a follow-up jump—but Malfoy doesn't seem to want to take any chances. He cuts off Harry's attempts to make conversation and drives, his face impassive.

They drive for an hour in silence, Harry watching the countryside go by out the window as he tries not to focus all of his attention on the wound in his back. It should be healing by now. He can feel the burn of it, but instead of easing off, it seems to be getting worse, the more time passes. He grits his teeth against it and watches the signs pass. 

Malfoy remains silent as they come into Manchester and he steers them to what appears to be yet another of his hideouts. He chooses a white Land Rover this time, exiting the jeep and transferring the suitcase in a few seconds.

It's only when Harry tries to stand that he realises how much blood he's lost. It's soaked through the field patch he'd put on in the apartment. The entire seat is sticky with it, and it's pooled beneath him. His arm feels heavy as he grips the door, trying to pull his legs around. His body doesn't seem to want to respond, but he forces himself to move, to climb out of the car. He slumps against the side of it, resting his head on it and closing his eyes, just for a moment.

'Potter,' Malfoy says. 'We need to make the swap quickly, what's—' Malfoy's voice cuts off as he rounds the side of the car and sees Harry, his joggers streaked with blood.

He takes two quick steps forward and reaches out to turn Harry, taking in the situation immediately.

'Are you kidding me right now, Potter?' he says, as he pulls out his wand and directs a Healing Charm at Harry's back. 'Have you seriously just been sitting beside me, _bleeding out_ for the last hour because you're too stupidly pigheaded to heal yourself?'

Harry shakes his head tiredly. _Don't need it_ , he wants to say, but he knows that's a bad idea. He shouldn't tell Malfoy that. There's a reason he shouldn't.

His back is so hot. It feels like lines of fire are radiating out from it. Malfoy's magic is cool on his skin, soothing. He looks over his shoulder to see Malfoy looking down at his back with an expression of concern. He speaks the spell again and Harry closes his eyes as he feels the same wash of coolness over his skin.

'S'nice,' he murmurs.

'Where's the knife?' Malfoy says, and Harry opens his eyes and turns to look at him, faint confusion tugging at him. He tries to think what he did with the knife. He pulled it out of his back, and he had it in his hand.

'Vanished it,' he says, as the memory comes back to him.

'Shit,' Malfoy says, under his breath.

'S'wrong?' Harry asks, turning slightly so he's leaning on the car again. He sighs as the movement takes the weight off his hip and for just a second gives some relief to his back.

'The spell's just bouncing back to me. Your wound's not healing. There must have been something on the blade. Poison or a curse, or something.' He looks at Harry and the concern that had been dancing in his eyes turns starts to look like fear. But that's crazy. What would Malfoy have to be afraid of?

'You need to go to Mungo's,' Malfoy says. 'Something's wrong.'

Harry straightens at those words, forcing himself to focus through the hints of blackness at the edges of his vision.

'No,' he says, making his voice definite. 'I'll heal. I'm fine. No hospitals.' He can't afford to be checked into Mungos. They'll know what he is the moment they run the first set of tests on him. He'll be fine.

Harry straightens and moves towards Malfoy's new car. He reaches for his rucksack, but Malfoy is there before him, and pulls it over his own shoulder.

'You're being fucking ridiculous, Potter,' he says. 'You need medical treatment. You're not invincible, you know. Even the great Harry Potter can die.'

Harry shrugs, trying for nonchalance. 'Wouldn't be the first time,' he says.

'I'm serious,' Malfoy says, face set in disapproval for his flippancy. 'That looks bad.'

Harry turns to glare at him, forcing himself to focus. 'So is getting caught here by whoever sent that prick after us. We need to _move_ , Malfoy. We don't have time for this.'

Malfoy just shakes his head at him, but seems resigned. 'You're unbelievable. You better not die on my watch, Potter.'

Harry makes his way to the Land Rover and behind him he hears Malfoy cast the Cleaning Charm he'd used in the apartment, removing all traces of Harry's blood from the Jeep. He's a quick study, Harry thinks, unable to help the admiration that comes with that thought.

'At least let me wrap it,' Malfoy says as Harry stands beside the Land Rover, steeling himself to climb into it.

'Fine,' Harry says, because they need to keep moving. They're wasting too much time here, wasting the advantage Malfoy is gaining them through the car swap.

Malfoy opens the door and rummages in his suitcase for a moment before he brings out a pale blue cotton shirt and a rolled up undershirt. He touches Harry's arm to turn him so he's facing the car.

'Arms up,' he says, and Harry complies, leaning on the car with a grunt of pain as the movement stretches the muscles of his back.

Behind him, Malfoy lifts Harry's shirt, peeling it and the useless patch Harry had added away from his skin. He hears a hiss as Malfoy gets his first look at the wound.

'This is bad, Potter,' Malfoy says, and Harry feels the flow of the healing magic over his skin again.

'It will be fine,' Harry says again, dropping his head between his arms and focusing on his breathing. 'Wrap me up. We need to get out of here.'

Malfoy makes a sound of frustration, but he complies. He places the pad of fabric against Harry's back, resting it there for a moment as he transfigures his shirt into bandages. He moves closer to Harry and begins wrapping them around his waist, his arms coming around Harry as he moves.

Malfoy's scent is bitter with worry, but there's something comforting about it as well and Harry closes his eyes as he breathes it in.

He listens to Malfoy's heartbeat to distract himself from the pain. It's fast, but steady. Strong. Harry will be okay. They both will.

As soon as Malfoy is done, Harry stands. Malfoy's hands drop to his hips, for just a moment and then the touch is gone and Malfoy is moving around to the other side of the car.

Harry takes a deep breath and climbs in.

'Change your glamour again,' Malfoy says, and Harry nods, dropping his fingers to his wand in his pocket. The magic is sluggish to his touch, but it seems he's succeeded because Malfoy turns the key, gunning the engine to life.

Harry waits until they're out of the garage and in the midst of traffic, no sign of anyone he recognises around them, before he asks where they're going.

'Lake District,' Malfoy says, 'I have a cottage up there. Or one of me does, anyway. It will take us an hour and a half. Will you be okay?'

Harry nods and closes his eyes. 'I'll be fine,' he says and winces as the pain spikes higher. For the first time, he wonders if that's true.


	7. Chapter 7

Harry wakes to someone shaking his shoulder. He blinks blearily at Malfoy, who has dropped his glamour, and then around at his surroundings. They're in the middle of a forest. He can smell it through the open door of the car. It's rich and loamy and teeming with life.

'Come on, Potter,' Malfoy says, and the worry is back in his voice. 'We need to get you inside so I can have a proper look at your back.'

Harry looks at him for a moment, waiting for the words to make sense, then he nods, closing his eyes again as the dappled light of the forest swirls into movement around him. He feels like he wants to be sick, all of a sudden, and licks his lips, trying to swallow the sensation. His mouth is dry, parched, and he becomes aware suddenly that he's hot. His whole body feels like it's burning up. 

Malfoy mutters a curse, his voice low and tight, then he reaches into the car, leaning against Harry slightly as he bends to unbuckle his seatbelt.

Harry opens his eyes again, trying to focus on Malfoy's face, but his outline is slightly blurred. He shakes his head, and then reaches up to grip Malfoy's arm as the nausea returns with full force.

'Come on,' Malfoy says, gripping his arm in turn. 'You need to help me here.'

Harry leans forward and then cries out as the pain spears down his back. He grits his teeth and keeps moving, forcing his legs to swing out of the door, so he's sitting sideways on his seat, facing Malfoy.

He has to wait for a moment then, drawing in shallow, panting breaths as the fire radiates through him. Something is wrong. This shouldn't be happening. He should be halfway healed from a knife wound by now, even without the spells Malfoy had cast on him.

Harry remembers Malfoy's words in the garage. _There must have been something on the blade. Poison or a curse._

Harry groans and Malfoy brings both hands up to grip his arms and balance him. Harry's head comes to rest on Malfoy's shoulder and he hears the tiny catch in Malfoy's breathing at the movement.

'We need to go to Mungo's,' Malfoy says, his voice low in Harry's ear. 'You're a mess.'

Harry shakes his head, his skin brushing against Malfoy's. He focuses on the warmth and scent of Malfoy's body, so close. If he turned his head just a bit, he could breathe in Malfoy's neck. The thought of that eases the pain for a moment, just long enough for him to speak, to come up with something that Malfoy will believe.

'We can't. We have no idea what sort of connections the people who came after you have. They could have someone at St Mungo's. If I have—' Harry draws in a pained breath and tilts his head into Malfoys neck, so that his lips are almost brushing Malfoy's skin. He breathes in again and lets the scent calm him slightly.

'If I have been poisoned or cursed, and show up like this, they'll be able to make the connection. I can't let people know I'm involved in this.'

Malfoy's hands tighten on Harry's arms, but he doesn't pull away from the feeling of Harry's breath against his skin.

'You'd rather die than be outed?' he asks and his voice is frustrated.

Harry wonders if Malfoy knows the double meaning in his words. He wonders if Malfoy knows how true they are. He closes his eyes. He's so tired. 

'I won't die. I just need to rest.'

Malfoy sighs and Harry feels it in the way his shoulders move. 'Right, let's get you inside then, you stubborn Gryffindor twat.'

Malfoy pulls his shoulders forward and Harry reaches for him, holding on as he slides off the edge of the seat. His knees buckle as his feet hit the ground and suddenly Malfoy is taking all of his weight, with a grunt of surprise.

'Fuck, you're heavy, Potter,' he says, arms around Harry.

Harry forces himself to stand, but he doesn't try to move away. Malfoy is cool against him, his body isn't the same raging furnace Harry's is, and he's strong.

'Smell good,' Harry mumbles, nosing against his neck again. Malfoy smells like safety and comfort and worry. Malfoy smells like _care_. Harry grips him closer and breathes in again.

Malfoy makes a small noise and then he's pushing Harry away. 'You're going to be so embarrassed when you recover from this,' he mutters, as he gets Harry's arm up over his shoulder—the one on his good side—and begins pulling him towards a small cottage, nestled among the trees.

Harry hears the words for a spell as they approach the door, but he has his eyes closed again as he focuses on breathing through the agony that each step sends flaring across his back.

The cottage is cool and dark and Malfoy moves through it purposefully, until he pulls Harry to a stop.

'Bed's here,' he says. 'You need to lie down so I can look at your back again.'

''kay,' Harry mumbles, the idea of lying down the best thing that's ever come out of Malfoy's mouth.

Malfoy guides him forward and Harry sits on the edge of the bed, leaning sideways slowly until he's stretched out, head on a pillow that smells faintly of Malfoy, something sharp and sweet at the same time.

He feels Malfoy's hands at his boots, unlacing them and pulled them from his feet. They clunk to the ground as Malfoy drops them.

Then Malfoy pulls lightly at the bottom of Harry's shirt. It's stuck to his skin again and the movement tugs at the makeshift bandage over his wound. Harry grits his teeth against the stab of pain.

'Vanish it,' he says, breathing in the scent of Malfoy in the pillow. 'Bandage too.'

A moment later Harry feels cool air against the skin of his back as his sleeveless shirt disappears. It's a tiny bit of relief and he takes it. 

'Joggers,' he says. 'Off. Too hot.'

Malfoy's hand touches his back and it's cool, offering a beautiful relief against the fever that seems to be running through him.

'You're burning up,' Malfoy murmurs, but he doesn't act on Harry's request, instead he starts casting. Harry almost moans in relief as the Cooling Charm flows over him. He hears Malfoy move away, then the sound of running water. A moment later he's back with a wet cloth. It's cold where it touches him, and Harry almost doesn't mind the pain as Malfoy cleans around his wound with it.

'Tergeo?' Harry mumbles.

'Blood's too dry,' Malfoy says, as he continues his cleaning. 'And it's just started to knit together, by the looks of it. I don't want to chance breaking it open again.'

''s nice,' Harry says, relaxing into the feeling of the cool cloth and Malfoy's gentle strokes.

Malfoy hums noncommittally, but his other hand comes up, stroking lightly over Harry's back, as though tracing lines on his skin.

'I think the knife was poisoned,' Malfoy says, after a long moment. Harry forces himself back to wakefulness. He had just started to drift again. He's so, so tired.

'There are black lines radiating out from the wound. They're moving, slowly, but I can't tell if they're getting bigger or smaller.'

'Always were good at potions,' Harry says, eyes closed as he focuses on the feeling of Malfoy's touch against his skin. 'Diagnose me, P'fessor.'

Malfoy lets out a snort of breath, but his hands don't stop their gentle ministrations. 'You have a fever and your heart rate is up. Are you thirsty?' he asks. 'Nauseous?'

Harry licks his lips, remembering abruptly just how thirsty he is.

'Both,' he says, and Malfoy lets the cloth sit on his back as he moves back through the cabin. Water runs again, then Malfoy is back with a glass.

Harry props himself up slightly, bringing his hand up to the glass, covering Malfoy's fingers as Malfoy guides it to his mouth. The water is cool and delicious and Harry swallows it greedily. Some spills from the corner of his mouth, dripping down his neck and onto his chest, but Harry pays it no mind. It feels nice against his feverish skin.

He pauses, however, when Malfoy reaches out a long, cool finger and wipes the drop from his chest. His touch lingers and Harry looks up into silver eyes which contain just a trace of the heat that Harry feels all through himself.

'Are you hallucinating?' Malfoy asks, still holding Harry's gaze. Harry swallows. A moment ago he would have said no, but now Malfoy is touching his bare chest and their fingers are linked over the glass, and Malfoy has a look in his eye like he might want to do more. 

'Maybe,' Harry says, and his voice is raspy.

Malfoy removes his hand and takes a half step back. 'Any other symptoms?' he asks.

'Tired,' Harry says, lying back down on his stomach and closing his eyes again. A part of him wants to pursue Malfoy's touch, to ask him to come back. He knows there are reasons he should avoid those thoughts, but he doesn't have the energy to remember them right now. He can't focus on Malfoy anyway. He's exhausted. He can feel his body's need to rest and to heal.

'Sleep,' Malfoy says. 'I'll renew the wards on the cottage and come back to check on you soon.'

Harry murmurs his agreement and lets himself sink into oblivion.

~

He doesn't know how much time has passed before he wakes again, but there's a voice calling to him, high and scared. He blinks awake in the darkness, trying to orient himself. 

'Harry! Uncle Harry! Where are you?'

The voice calls again, and Harry recognises it. It's Teddy. He sounds terrified.

Harry pushes himself up, ignoring the fresh flare of pain in his back as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. He registers distantly that his joggers are gone and he's just wearing a pair of pants, but that's not important. Teddy needs him.

Harry pushes himself into a standing position and takes a shaky step forward. His leg knocks into something warm and he stumbles, reaching out. He doesn't manage to catch himself and he falls forward as arms reach up to grab at him. He lands badly, twisting so that his back smacks into something hard. Harry cries out at the new flare of pain and feels a hot wetness as blood begins to run down his back again.

'Potter? What the fuck?' Malfoy says as Harry falls half on top of him. Malfoy's voice sounds groggy and Harry realises he must have been sleeping in a chair beside the bed.

Harry lies there, pressed against Malfoy as he fights through the sudden renewed agony in his back. Then the voice comes again, and it's a scream, coming from outside the cottage. It's shrill and panicked.

Harry swears and pushes up, ignoring the pain and pulling free of Malfoy's grip as he stumbles towards the door.

Behind him Malfoy casts a _Lumos_ and the room glows dimly.

'What the hell are you doing?' Malfoy says. 'Get back in bed. You've broken the bloody cut open again, you idiot. It's bleeding down your back.'

Harry ignores him, hurrying towards the door. Teddy is out there, and he needs him.

'Potter,' Malfoy says, and now there's concern in his voice. 'Stop.'

Harry reaches for the door handle only to find it locked. He shakes the door but it doesn't budge. He sets his shoulder to it. He has to get to Teddy. His scream comes again and Harry feels the sound echo through him. He hits the door again, panic surging in him.

Malfoy rushes over to him, placing a cool hand on his arm. 'Potter, what's wrong? What's happening?'

'Unlock the door,' Harry says, banging into it again. It should have broken. Normally it would have broken, but he's so weak. 'Teddy's out there. They're killing him. Hurry.'

Malfoy curses and then both of his hands are on Harry's shoulders. 'Potter, listen to me. You're hallucinating. He's not out there. I promise you.'

Harry bangs his shoulder against the door again, whimpering at the pain that jolts through him.

'Harry,' Malfoy says. 'Stop. Please. You're hurting yourself. He's not there. I can't hear anything outside.'

Harry shakes his head. 'He needs me. I have to save him.'

One of Malfoy's hands comes up and he cups the back of Harry's neck, squeezing gently. Harry finds the gesture oddly soothing and it makes him pause for a moment.

'That's it,' Malfoy says, his voice soft. 'Listen to me, okay? Listen to my voice, not whatever is outside. There's nothing out there. Teddy is gone, remember. I promise if he was out there and was in trouble I would do everything to help you. But he's not. He's gone. He's been gone for a long time, Harry.'

Harry tenses at Teddy's name and shakes his head against the words. Teddy's not gone. He can't be gone. Teddy is his Godson. He's Harry's responsibility. Harry would never let anything happen to him. Malfoy squeezes the back of his neck again. 'I need you to trust me, Harry.' He takes a step closer and leans in so their foreheads are pressed together. Harry takes in a deep, shaking breath, trying to focus on Malfoy's words. 

'It's the fever. You've been poisoned with Jimsonweed. I have no idea how you're not dead. You should have reached this stage half an hour after you were stabbed,' Malfoy's voice drifts off, almost as though he's talking to himself, 'but here you are, and I'm going to help you through it, okay? You just need to listen to my voice.'

Teddy's scream comes again. Harry hears his name, but it's fainter now, drifting away. He tenses at the sound of it, his instincts still urging him to go to the boy.

Malfoy cups his face, rubbing a thumb over Harry's cheekbone gently. 'Teddy's gone, Harry. I'm so sorry but he's gone.'

Harry feels the truth of those words cut through him, realisation and grief, fresh like they were new, flooding in the wake of Malfoy's statement. He whimpers at the pain of it and Malfoy's thumb strokes soothingly across his skin.

'Come on, Harry,' Malfoy says, leading him away from the door. 'Let's get you back to the bed. That's it. Follow me. I've got you.'

Harry lets himself be led. There's something about Malfoy's voice that is soothing, something that the wolf wants to curl up into. It helps with the rawness of the pain, helps it to drain away again, instead of being trapped inside him.

'That's it, Harry,' Malfoy says, as Harry climbs back onto the bed. 'That's perfect. Well done. I'm just going to get something to clean you up again, okay? Wait there.'

A moment later, the bed dips beside him as Malfoy sits on the edge, then Malfoy's hands are back on his skin and the cool wetness of the cloth is wiping blood from him again. It feels nice. Malfoy feels nice. The last of the panicked feeling fades and Harry can't hear anything but the sound of Malfoy's heartbeat and his soft breathing in the dim light. 

Harry is drifting back to sleep when Malfoy's movements stop. Malfoy shifts, preparing to stand and Harry rouses at the movement. He opens his eyes again and reaches over to put a hand on Malfoy's thigh. Malfoy stills and Harry can hear his heartbeat spike.

'Stay,' Harry murmurs, voice groggy. 'Pat me more.'

Malfoy sits on the edge of the bed for a long moment, but then he reaches out, running his smooth, cool hand down Harry's back. Harry sighs at the touch and then shuffles over, moving slowly and painfully until he's closer to the wall.

It's a clear invitation for Malfoy to lie down beside him and, to Harry's surprise, he does. Harry hears the sound of Malfoy's shoes hitting the ground, then he says ' _Nox_ ' and the light from his wand disappears, leaving the room bathed only in the faint light of the moon through the window. It's three quarters full and Harry fancies he can feel the touch of it on his skin, now that he's lying closer to the window.

It feels nice, but not as nice as Malfoy's palm running over the skin of his back, careful to avoid his wound. Malfoy is lying on his side, facing Harry, one arm cushioned under his head, the other hand continuing its soft, soothing strokes over him.

'You give good pats,' Harry says, feeling his eyelids get heavy again.

'You better not hex me for this when you wake up,' Malfoy mutters, but his hand doesn't stop its stroking. They lie there in the darkness together, neither saying anything. The silence between them feels charged, though what with, Harry doesn't know.

Malfoy's touch is gentle and repetitive, and Harry feels it soothing something much deeper inside himself than the fever has reached. Malfoy's touch makes him feel safe, he thinks, as his eyes slip closed. He doesn't know how long it's been since someone else could make him feel safe.

Harry's last thought, before he slides back into sleep, is that Malfoy is stroking his hair now, and that it feels right.

~

Harry comes awake slowly, nuzzling forward into something warm which smells delicious. He breathes it in and rubs his cheek against it and it moves slightly, shifting in his arms. He presses forward, opening his mouth to lick lightly against the skin under his cheek. The body in his arms moves again, pushing back against him in a slow stretch into wakefulness.

The movement presses against Harry's cock, which he realises is half hard. He rumbles his satisfaction and licks at the skin again, before sucking at it as he gives a little hum of pleasure.

He hears a soft groan which is bitten off, followed by a swift shove of movement. Harry opens his eyes to see Malfoy's face only a few centimetres away from him.

He realises he's half-draped over Malfoy's chest and his naked leg is entwined with Malfoy's, though Malfoy's still wearing trousers, by the feel of it. Harry realises his face had been buried in Malfoy's neck. He'd just licked Malfoy's neck.

Malfoy looks like he's just woken up and his hair is a dishevelled mess. A voice in the back of Harry's mind whispers that this is strange—this is not normal. But the rest of him murmurs of care and safety and protection. The wolf inside him presses forward and Harry doesn't try to prevent it.

'Potter, stop,' Malfoy says, and something twists in his face, something that looks like desperation. 'You don't want this. I told you. I'll stay here with you as long as there's no kissing.'

Harry can smell Malfoy's arousal, low and simmering. The scent of it makes it impossible for Harry to stop himself from burying his face in Malfoy's neck again, nipping lightly at the skin there.

Malfoy moans and his hands come up to grip Harry's arms, fingers digging in. Harry rolls his hips forward, letting out a low rumble of satisfaction as he feels his cock press against Malfoy's body.

Malfoy's hands pull him closer for just a second—just long enough for Harry to picture how it would feel to lick and bite his way down Malfoy's body—then he yelps as a Stinging Jinx hits him on the arse. He pulls back and looks down at Malfoy.

'I _told_ you,' Malfoy says, and he tries to wiggle out from under Harry. Harry tightens his grip and Malfoy freezes. 

'Potter,' Malfoy says. 'You need to let me go now. We talked about this.' He lets out a huff of exasperation. 'Well, I talked, you mostly hallucinated and groped me.'

Harry pulls back, the words sinking in. He feels some of the fuzziness clear from his mind and he forces himself to take in Malfoy's words, to _think_. He leaves a hand on Malfoy's chest, but rolls back up onto his elbow, disentangling their legs.

'What?' he asks.

'Oh,' Malfoy says, eyes widening. 'You're back with us, are you? That's marvellous.' He pushes at Harry's shoulder, pushing him back and away.

'What do you mean, back with you?' Harry asks, sitting, and feeling his back muscles pull, but without the spear of pain that he'd felt the day before. 

Malfoy sits up as well and runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further. His shirt is untucked at the waist and the top few buttons are undone. Harry sees the faint imprint of teeth at the base of his throat and the redness of the mark he'd just sucked. The sight sends a rush of arousal through him and he's reaching out before he can think about it. He needs to touch the traces of himself on Malfoy's skin.

Malfoy slaps his hand away, not meeting Harry's eyes. 'If you don't mind,' he says, as he slides off the edge of the bed. 'I've had the night from hell and I need a shower.'

Harry watches him go, feeling a mixture of confusion and desire. He sits in bed in just his pants and tries to think about what had happened the night before. The last thing he remembers is Malfoy talking him back into bed after he'd dreamed of Teddy, and then the touch of Malfoy's hand on his hair.

Harry breathes in; he can smell Malfoy all around him. The scent of him is on Harry's skin, mixed with the sweat of his fever. He hears the shower start and almost as soon as the door closes he hears a low groan from Malfoy and then the furious sound of water splashing rhythmically.

Harry turns his head to look at the wall and closes his eyes as he listens to Malfoy wank. It's over in less than a minute and Malfoy sobs as he comes, the sound a mixture of frustration and pleasure.

Harry raises his hand to his face as he breathes in the scent of Malfoy on his skin and thinks about the imprint of teeth on his neck. He'd clearly wanted to fuck Malfoy—had attempted to, by the looks of it. And Malfoy had wanted it, or been turned on by it. So why had he resisted?

Harry presses a hand lightly to his cock as he considers it. It feels good, but his own touch isn't what he wants. He wonders if Malfoy would accept his touch, his mark, in the light of day. He'd been with a were before, after all. He'd told Harry that. But if he wants Harry, he clearly had ample opportunity the night before. Harry shakes his head at those thoughts. Where are they coming from? He's never wanted to mark anyone before—to claim them.

Harry rubs a hand over his eyes and feels the bracelet shift on his skin. He looks down at it, running a finger over it idly. He glances at the door Malfoy had disappeared through, his circular thoughts of the last few weeks coming back to him. 

Does what he's feeling come from him? Or is it just the bracelet—the bond? He thinks about Malfoy's reaction to waking up with Harry wrapped around him. Is that why Malfoy was so uncomfortable with the whole thing? Does he know it's fake? Does he feel guilty for the way Harry is being manipulated?

He twists the bracelet again. He doesn't _feel_ like he's being manipulated. Since Malfoy told him the truth two days before, about who he is and what he does, Harry is finding it hard to marshal the same levels of antagonism towards him. It's as though everything he knows about Malfoy is being rearranged in his mind.

Harry looks at the bracelet, faint doubt still tugging at him. Malfoy had said it straight out. He's very good at telling people what they want to hear and, specifically, he knows how to work a werewolf.

Harry hears the shower shut off and he shakes his head. He's being stupid. They're being hunted. He almost died the day before. He should be thinking about the case, not his cock and whether Malfoy is directing it.

Malfoy comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later and he's fully dressed, his shirt buttoned up to his neck. Harry looks at his collar, wondering if the teeth marks are still there, under the shirt, or if Malfoy healed them. 

Malfoy doesn't meet his eyes, instead he moves over to the small kitchenette and fills the kettle.

'Tea?' he asks, as though he hadn't woken up with Harry wrapped around him and then wanked over it five minutes before.

'Please,' Harry says, deciding that if Malfoy wants to play it that way, he should probably go along with it, and see where that gets him.

Of course, that doesn't mean he can't push Malfoy, a little, just to see what happens. Maybe Malfoy will let something slip about what is actually going on between them. Pushing Malfoy has always been a talent of his, after all.

'I'm going to have a shower too,' he says, sliding his legs off the bed. He stands and stretches gingerly, though he feels infinitely better than he did the day before.

'Your things are already in there,' Malfoy says, not turning around.

'Ta,' Harry says, walking towards him, instead of to the bathroom. Malfoy seems to sense this and he turns around, his eyes flicking over Harry's body for a moment before fixing on his face.

'Can you check my wound, first?' Harry asks, standing in front of Malfoy. 'It feels a lot better, but I want to make sure.'

Malfoy licks his lips and the gesture looks unconscious. 'Of course.'

Harry turns away from him and bends forward slightly, putting both hands on the table so that Malfoy has a clear view of his back. He knows that dressed in just his pants, it will give Malfoy a clear view of the curve of his arse too. If the spike in his heartbeat is anything to go by, Malfoy has taken full advantage of that fact.

Malfoy's fingertips trace his back, along the edge of the wound, his other hand on Harry's hip, tilting his body slightly into the light.

'It's healing well,' he says after a moment and his touch is gone as he turns back to his tea making. 'The spells must have kicked in now that the poison has dissipated.'

Harry turns around and smiles. 'Perfect,' he says. 'We can get out of here today, then.'

Malfoy turns back to him and shakes his head. 'No way. You're taking at least the next day to rest, ideally two.'

Harry frowns and opens his mouth to argue. They should keep moving. Staying in one place raises the chance of someone following their trail.

Malfoy raises a hand to cut him off. 'The _least_ you could do is rest for a day. You should be dead,' Malfoy says, and his voice leaves no room for argument. 'Jimsonweed is incredibly toxic. It leads to fever, hallucinations and heart failure within an hour, two tops. People don't just fight that off.'

Harry shrugs, pleased to feel only a slight pull in his back as his body heals the wound. 'I survived Voldemort twice,' he says, trying to make light of the situation. 'I'm not going to let a weed kill me.'

Malfoy just frowns, his mouth thin. 'Jimsonweed is resistant to magic. It can be treatable by Muggle means if you get to it within the first thirty minutes but most wizards don't know that. It's a poison Hit Wizards often use when they want to make someone suffer and leave a message.' He looks Harry in the eyes. 'If he'd scratched me with that knife, I'd be dead. I owe you my life, Potter. Again.'

Harry feels uncomfortable with the intensity of Malfoy's gaze. 'That's what you're paying me for, isn't it? To jump in front of knives for you?'

Malfoy rolls his eyes in exasperation, but it breaks the intensity. 'Sometimes you're such a Gryffindor it makes me sick,' he says as he turns away again. 'Go and have a shower, you stink.'

'I smell like you,' Harry says, and his voice drops lower than he means it to as he thinks about just how much he likes that.

Malfoy stiffens and his knuckles whiten on the cup he has in his hand, but he doesn't respond.

Harry watches him for a moment, gauging his reaction. Malfoy _likes_ that Harry smells like him. That's not fake. Surely?

Harry smiles and heads for the shower.

~

Once he's clean and has vanished the still blood-encrusted pants he was wearing, Harry feels more of his fogginess of the night before fading. He's still tired, he realises, as he dresses slowly. His whole body feels sore, as though he's gone a full day in combat training. He wonders, absently, as he rubs a towel over his hair, just how close he came to dying the night before.

He looks at himself in the mirror; his beard is growing in. He prefers it trimmed close to his face and bends to grab his electric shaver from his rucksack on the floor. Shaving Charms never seem to achieve the length he likes.

As he trims, Harry studies himself. He looks pale and his face is drawn. He can see his illness on himself, and he doesn't like it. Even when he'd taken a _Reducto_ a few weeks ago, he hadn't come out of it feeling this bad.

Harry hears the clanking of pots in the kitchen and turns his mind to Malfoy. He'd been out of it last night, absolutely vulnerable. Malfoy could have done anything—could have ensured he wouldn't wake up—but here Harry is, shaving in a bathroom that smells like Malfoy's come while Malfoy makes him breakfast. Harry shakes his head at the thought and finishes, clicking his shaver off.

He wonders, as he packs his things up, what else he hallucinated the night before. He wonders if he said anything he shouldn't have. His pants had still been on, and they cover the mess of scar tissue on his hip, so Malfoy can't have seen that. Harry just hopes he hadn't said anything to give himself away. Surely Malfoy would have referred to it, if he had?

Harry opens the door to see Malfoy serving up a breakfast of eggs on toast. Malfoy's pulled himself back together, Harry realises immediately. His scent has no trace of the arousal he'd woken up with. The layers of concern are gone too. Malfoy smells like they're sharing breakfast on any other day and he has nothing more to do than work on his story for the morning.

'Where did these come from?' Harry asks, sitting at the table and pulling his plate closer. Malfoy's served him up half a dozen eggs and Harry can't help but smile at the pile of food.

'You need to get your strength back,' Malfoy says, responding to his smile. 'The pantry has a Stasis Charm on it. I only use this cottage for emergencies, and I don't generally have time to go shopping on the way.'

Harry nods his approval as he tucks in. 'What do you think happened?' he asks after a moment.

Malfoy puts his square of toast down and has a sip of tea before he speaks. 'I think Davies got nervous,' he says, and it's clear he's given it some thought. 'I think he told someone else about what happened in our last visit and, between them, they decided I was more trouble than I was worth. That or they needed to test if I was serious.'

'So what now?' Harry asks, thinking about what they'd needed from Davies. 'If Davies is off the table, how do we get to Mother?'

Harry shovels the last of the eggs into his mouth, chewing as he thinks. Malfoy doesn't respond and Harry continues after a moment. 'It's too bad we couldn't have taken the guy who stabbed me into custody. He could have led us closer.'

'Too bad,' Malfoy agrees, as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small glass vial with a distorted M on the side, which looks strangely like the Marriott Hotel logo. Inside are blue wisps, twirling fluidly around each other before separating and moving away.

Harry looks down at it then up at Malfoy, whose face is set in a satisfied smile which holds a hint of smugness.

'You sneaky bastard,' Harry says in admiration. 'Scooping memories off an unconscious perp is illegal.'

'So's stabbing people,' Malfoy says, and Harry can hear the utter lack of fucks given in his voice. 'The memories are useless without a Pensive though. I had access to one at the Manor, but that's long gone. The other one I've used is via a connection that's no longer available to me. Turns out when you out someone for abuse of power, they're less likely to let you into their home to use their pretty things.'

Harry thinks for a moment, but only two ideas come to him, and neither are ideal. 'Hogwarts is out,' he says. 'I can't think of a single reason McGonagall would let us in without asking questions. We'll have to use a Ministry one.'

Malfoy looks at him like he's gone mad and then scoops the vial up, slipping it back into his pocket.

'You're insane,' he says flatly, 'if you think I'm setting foot inside the Ministry.'

'It's the only option,' Harry says. 'We need to see what's in those memories. Ron will let us in, and he won't ask questions if I ask him not to.'

Malfoy shakes his head. 'What part of, "I've been on the run from the Aurors for ten years" didn't actually sink in, Potter?' he asks, and Harry can hear a hint of fear in his sneering response. 

'We'll glamour you,' he says. 'I'll go as me. That should be good enough to get us most of the way in. You just pick one of your identities and we'll think of a good reason for you to be with me.'

Malfoy crosses his arms and his face is cold. 'And what stops you from turning me over to the Aurors the moment we're inside?'

Harry looks at him, surprise running through him at the question. He hadn't even thought of it—hadn't even considered that he might set Malfoy up to be arrested. Had he really turned about so completely on his view of Malfoy?

Silence stretches between them for a long moment. 'You'll just have to trust me,' Harry says at last. Malfoy's face shutters, as though that will never be a step he can imagine taking, and Harry wonders, not for the first time, just what Malfoy's life has been like over the past decade that he is so completely incapable of leaning on another person.

'I trusted you last night,' Harry says, as he sits back in his seat.

'You were out of your mind,' Malfoy says, voice flat. 

'Exactly,' Harry responds. 'And you felt safe to me during that time. I could count on one hand the number of people I would let be around me like that.'

Malfoy frowns and looks away, and Harry stands. 'It's our best option,' he says. 'Unless you want me to look at the memories alone. I can, but you know this case better than I do. You'll see details I'll miss.'

Malfoy clenches his jaw and Harry knows he agrees with the statement.

'I need to lie down,' Harry says as he pushes to his feet. Tiredness is running through him again. Now that he's cleaned and fed, his body is pushing him back towards sleep.

Malfoy doesn't say anything, but as Harry lies down, he hears a chair scrape back and the door to the cabin opens and shuts. He tenses slightly, but he doesn't hear the sound of the car's engine or the crack of Apparition.

After a minute he decides that Malfoy will do what he chooses to do, and worrying won't make any difference. He lets himself sleep.

~

Harry wakes as the sun is setting. Malfoy is sitting at the kitchen table when he rolls over, and his notes are spread out before him.

'You're right,' he says without preamble, as he sees Harry stir. 'We don't have another option. I can use a Polyjuice identity I have: Walter Green. I'd feel better if I wasn't wearing something that could be stripped away with a spell.'

Harry sits up and stretches as Malfoy continues talking, a slightly rushed tone to his voice. Harry can smell coffee in the air, and he wonders just how much Malfoy has had.

'Walter's a gentleman in his seventies, very easy going, small village type.'

They spend the next hour knocking around ideas. Malfoy makes dinner while they talk, his sleeves rolled up. There's something strangely comfortable about his casual relaxation in Harry's presence now.

Harry catches glimpses of the faded Mark on his arm, but it doesn't bother him like he thought it would. He plays absently with the bracelet on his wrist as he watches Malfoy, finding his mind drifting back over the last few days, thinking about how much his view of Malfoy has shifted.

He wonders if it's solely a result of what's happened, and what he now knows about Malfoy. A tiny, cynical part of himself that has served him well over the years, wonders again what the Loyalty Bond he'd agreed to has to do with it. It's not like him to change so radically, to trust so fully. _Is_ he being influenced? He tugs at the bracelet lightly, wondering what Malfoy would do if he asked to sever the bond.

'Do you think Weasley will buy it?' Malfoy asks and Harry has to think back over the last few minutes of conversation he'd been half taking in.

'I think he'll know something isn't quite right, but he'll be okay with it if I promise him I know what I'm doing.'

Malfoy looks unconvinced, but he puts a plate piled high with sausages and veg down in front of Harry.

'Ta,' Harry says, as he reaches for the pepper. They eat in silence as the sun sets.

When they're done, Malfoy reaches for his notes again, but Harry puts out a hand, pressing lightly on the papers to stop him.

'You should sleep,' he says. 'You're wired.'

Malfoy looks at the bed and away again.

'I'll transfigure the table,' he says, standing up and gathering his notes to himself, shrinking them down.

'Don't be stupid,' Harry says. 'The bed is easily big enough.' He pauses, letting a hint of a grin onto his face. 'I promise I won't hog it tonight.'

Malfoy flushes slightly, a touch of red staining his cheeks. He glances at the bed once more.  
'Fine,' he says, putting the plates in the sink and heading to the bathroom.

'Fine,' Harry agrees, his grin widening. He's not quite sure what he's doing. Not sure what he wants to be doing, but the faint flush on Malfoy's cheeks is something he wants to see again.

When Malfoy comes out of the bathroom he's in joggers and a soft looking v-neck.

'You usually sleep naked?' Harry says, gaze flicking over Malfoy's attire. He phrases it like a question, although he knows the answer, has pictured Malfoy stretched out in his bed in the next room more than once.

The flush stains Malfoy's cheeks again and he sniffs, as though trying to hide his reaction.   
'I didn't want to give you any reason to get handsy again,' he says as he climbs into bed. Harry notices that he takes the side furthest from the wall. He wants to be able to make a quick escape if he can. It's this thought that stops Harry from teasing him further.

He brushes his teeth and strips his clothes off. Unlike Malfoy, he runs too hot to go to bed fully dressed. A pair of tight black pants are his only concession to the fact that he's sharing.

Malfoy's eyes are closed and the lights are out when Harry comes back out of the bathroom, but he knows Malfoy isn't sleeping. His heart is beating too quickly, for one, and there's a strange tension in the air.

Harry moves over to the bed. He could easily jump over Malfoy and into the vacant space beside him, but his back is still tender and he tells himself he doesn't want to risk straining it. Instead, he puts his hand on the far side of Malfoy's body and then swings a leg over him, so he's basically straddling his blanketed form.

Malfoy stiffens slightly and his breathing hitches before it goes back to its normal rhythm. Harry stays balanced there for just a moment, almost, but not quite touching him, before he shifts his weight, moving to the other side of Malfoy and pulling the covers back, slipping beneath them.

Harry rolls so he's facing Malfoy, a body-width of distance between him. The bed still smells like the two of them, despite the fact that Malfoy has cast Freshening Charms on it. Harry breathes in the scent while he waits to see if Malfoy will turn to face him. He doesn't and after a long moment, Harry speaks into the darkness.

'Night, Malfoy.'

There's no response. Harry turns his face slightly into the pillow, breathing in their mingled scents, and closes his eyes.

~

It takes them a day to get back to London. Malfoy swaps cars again, and Harry wonders just how many of the bloody things he has standing around. He parks near an Apparition point Harry has used before, and reaches into his suitcase to pull out a vial of Polyjuice and a small case containing around twenty labelled jars. He sorts through them quickly before pulling out one labelled 17 and shaking a hair onto his palm.

Walter Green is a wrinkled man in his seventies who wears cardigans and is balding on top. His face is friendly and he looks like exactly the sort of concerned resident Harry would expect to come to him with information about something suspicious. Harry drops his own glamour and glances in the mirror to check he looks the way he should before he gets out of the car.

He and Malfoy walk side by side to the Apparition point and Malfoy pauses before they step into it.

'Please don't make me regret trusting you, Mr Potter,' he says, and his voice has a papery texture to it.

'I won't,' Harry says as he takes a step inside, pulling Malfoy with him and whirling them into Apparition.

He has to use the public entrance and it's an uncomfortable feeling. He hasn't been back to the Ministry since he was sacked and it had been almost fifteen years before that since he was a civilian. He makes his way to the lifts, pushing the button for Level Two as Malfoy steps in behind him.

Three other people get in beside them, eyeing Harry with barely concealed interest and paying no attention to Malfoy. Harry glances at him, ignoring the people who just got in. Malfoy is looking around with a transparent awe that looks totally at home on Walter's face. Harry thinks again how much of a natural Malfoy is. They would have made a killer team.

Banks is on the front desk when Harry steps out of the lift and Harry approaches her with a smile that he doesn't have to fake. She'd been one of his favourite Aurors, one of those people that could diffuse a room with a few well-placed words. She'd been a brilliant part of his team. He realises, as she smiles back at him, the gesture slightly forced, that he hasn't seen her since his so-called resignation. Guilt tugs at him, and he knows what it must have looked like, him upping and leaving without a word to anyone afterwards.

'Afternoon, Banks,' he says as he leans on the desk. 'It's good to see you. How's things?'  
He forces himself to make small talk. Just being back on this floor is making him antsy. It's the site of so many of his best and worst memories. Forget second home, this basically _was_ his home for so many years. And then he was removed from it.

He looks at Banks and thinks he's probably spent more time in a room with her and his other Aurors than he has with some of his friends from school. He doesn't see them anymore either, he thinks with another stab of guilt. He pushes it away. This is not the time.

'Hullo, sir— er, Harry,' she says, and her smile wavers as she gives the greeting. 'I'm keeping well enough. Thank you.'

'And Georgie?' he asks. Behind him, he hears Malfoy shift impatiently, but Harry ignores him.

'Georgie's great,' Banks says, and she relaxes, at last, into something more genuine. 'She just started school and she loves it. You should see her at the end of each day. David has to drag her away.'

Harry can imagine, Banks' daughter is a bundle of energy.

'That's great to hear,' he says, then he looks past her, though he knows he won't be able to see into the Auror offices.

'Is Ron in?' he asks, gesturing at Malfoy behind him. 'Mr Green here has some information that might be pertinent to one of his cases.'

Banks' eyes flick to Malfoy, who is clutching his hands together as though he's anxious to be standing in the Auror Headquarters. Harry takes a deep breath in, subtly. Malfoy doesn't _smell_ anxious, but his heartbeat is up.

He gives Malfoy a reassuring smile, which gets him an imperceptible narrowing of Malfoy's eyes. Harry turns back to Banks with a look of anticipation.

'Should be,' she says, 'I'll go have a look for you.'  
She disappears through a door behind her and Malfoy lets out a breath. It's his only concession to the tension.

It's a few minutes before Banks returns, Ron following her through the door. He breaks into a smile when he sees Harry, waving his wand to lift the barrier that stops members of the public from being able to come through to the back.

Harry is surprised at the way seeing Ron in his Auror uniform, looking relaxed and happy and totally at home at work, hits him like a punch in the guts. His old bitterness floods back through him. 

He _hates_ the bastards that took him away from Ron. Ron has always been the person at his back—he and Hermione a team Harry knows he can always rely on. Since the incident, those feelings have only intensified. 

Hermione had looked into pack dynamics for him, after he'd started wanting Ron around more and more, started relying on Ron being with him to feel whole. Harry still feels the embarrassment he'd felt when Hermione had announced that his wolf viewed Ron as his second in the pack. Ron hadn't been fazed. He'd just announced that it was the place he'd always had in Harry's life, so it made sense the wolf knew it too.

Harry steps up to Ron and lets himself be engulfed in a hug. It's far briefer than the contact he gets at the Burrow, where everyone leans against him, rests their hands on him and makes sure he leaves covered in the mingled scents of his pack.

Ron makes sure to rub their cheeks together for a moment, then he slaps Harry on the back before letting him go and looking at him with interest.

'Wasn't expecting to see you today, Harry. What's up?'

Harry shakes off his sadness and gestures to Malfoy, standing off to one side. He has a job to do. Living in the past won't get it done.

'Mr Green has some information on one of your cases. He was a bit concerned about coming in alone, so I said I'd come with him. Can we use one of the rooms?'

Ron's eyes move over Malfoy quickly and he smiles, reaching out his hand as he steps forward.  
'Auror Weasley,' he says, 'pleased to meet you. Thanks for coming in.'

Malfoy looks slightly taken aback, but recovers after a moment, shaking Ron's hand.

'Thank you for seeing me, sir. I hope I can be of some help. I don't know if it was important, what I saw. It's hard for me to remember, these days, you see. But Mr Potter here said it could be, so of course I was happy to come in.'

'Of course,' Ron says, turning to gesture through the still open gap in the desk. 'This way, please.'

As Malfoy walks past him, Ron turns to Harry and mutters, 'Blimey, mate. You sure?'

Harry gives him the small eye roll that he knows Ron is expecting to see. They're both used to dealing with all sorts of people when taking statements. Malfoy is playing the doddering old man perfectly.

Ron leads them to an interview room around the corner from his and Harry's old office. Harry doesn't look into it as they pass. He can't.

Instead he takes a seat beside Malfoy in the small room while Ron sits opposite them.

'Something about a case, you said?' Ron asks, pulling a notepad and quill out of his robes.

'Excuse me, one moment, Mr Green,' Harry says as he traces the movement of the Auror Privacy Charm he could do in his sleep. Malfoy looks at him, his pleasant, agreeable expression sharpening slightly as Harry begins speaking to Ron and he can no longer hear what's being said. Harry wills Malfoy to trust him.

'Old guy's got Alzheimer's, I think,' Harry says. 'I came across him on the current job I'm running. I think he has some info I need to help protect my client, but I can't get him to tell it to me straight.'

Ron looks at Malfoy speculatively. 'What's the job?' he asks. 'Bill said you came home a few weeks ago, but 'Mione said this one was a long one?'

'Keeping some rich bloke safe,' Harry says, waving a hand dismissively. He feels a pang at lying to Ron, but it can't be helped. He can't—literally can't—reveal Malfoy's identity, even if he wanted to. He's wearing a t-shirt, and the bracelet on his wrist is clearly visible. It had been Malfoy's one condition; the one thing that said he didn't completely trust Harry, despite agreeing to his plan.

'Walter has tea every day in a café opposite where my charge works,' Harry continues, ignoring the way Malfoy is looking between them, as though trying to read their lips. He won't be able to, the spell is good for that too. 'I've seen a few people hanging about, but I need to know if it's a coincidence or a pattern. I reckon Walter can tell me, but I can't get him to stay in the present long enough to get it out of him.'

Ron nods. 'Makes sense. You want a Pensive then?'

Harry gives him a slightly pained smile. 'Is that alright? It's bloody weird coming in here and asking for it.' He sits back with a sigh as he looks around. 'Everything about being here is bloody weird actually.' He's being completely genuine now. Seeing Ron sitting opposite him, in his familiar Auror robes, talking about a case the way they had a million times before is bringing up more of his old feelings of anger and loss. He fucking _hates_ that they took this from him.

It hits him suddenly that if Malfoy is doing nothing wrong—if Malfoy is _Veritas_ —Harry might not be able to bring him in the way he'd hoped to. Malfoy might not be his ticket back into the Ministry. The pain of that thought takes the breath from him for a moment and he forces it away. He can't think about that now.

Ron grimaces, and Harry forces himself to pay attention. 'Tell me about it. Johnson's got nothing on you. He's alright as a partner, I suppose, but he doesn't have that way of jumping in the right direction and pulling us all with him.'

Harry can feel the sadness emanating from Ron, mixed with the anger he still feels at the injustice Harry had faced in being forced to quit because he'd been bitten. Ron had been ready to leave with him. It had taken Harry and Hermione weeks to talk him down from it.

'Ah well,' Harry says, keeping his voice deliberately light. The turmoil of his sudden realisation is still spiralling through him. 'Nothing we can do about it now. At least I can live out my glory days protecting prats who need bodyguards,' Harry says with a self-deprecating smile.

'Suppose,' Ron says and breaks the privacy spell.

'Sorry about that, Mr Green,' he says, turning to Malfoy with a professional smile. 'Standard procedure. If you'd be so good as to follow me, we have something that may help with your memory.'

Malfoy glances at Harry, as though seeking his approval and Harry notes the way Malfoy's eyes drop to the bracelet, still secured around his wrist, before he turns back to Ron and smiles.

'Of course, young man. I remember how it is. I used to be a Potioneer, you know. Top Secret, that business. So many people were after my recipes and potions, but do you think I ever told them?' Malfoy stands with a crack of joints. 'No sir! Walter Green is as tight-lipped as they come.'

Ron meets Harry's eyes over Malfoy's stooped form and his expression is all sympathy. Harry pushes his guilt away again. One day, when Malfoy is long gone and the case is over, he'll be able to tell Ron.

He tries not to think about how the idea of Malfoy disappearing makes something inside him feel empty.


	8. Chapter 8

Malfoy keeps up his doddering old Walter Green act until they've Apparated back to the place they left the car. He climbs inside, telling Harry about one time, in his youth, when he'd met a lovely young lass, name of Sally, who he'd thought he might grow old with.

As the car door shuts he leans back for just a moment, closing his eyes and letting out a shuddering breath. When he opens them again he sends a warm, if slightly vacant, smile to Harry.

'Where to now, Mr Potter? Oh, never mind, I know just the place.'

Malfoy continues to prattle on and Harry just watches him, wondering what's going on in his mind, just how deeply he embeds himself into the personas he creates. He drives for half an hour, taking them out of the city before pulling up in front of a nondescript little terraced house.

'This will do for the night, I believe?' he says, turning to Harry. 'What do you think, young man?'

'This will be fine, thanks, Walter,' Harry says, trying to avoid giving Malfoy the odd look that's struggling to get out of him the longer this goes on. He opens the car door and collects his things.

Malfoy steps up beside him on the sidewalk and touches his arm lightly to allow him to pass through the wards. Once they're through he strides to the door as fast as Walter's body will let him, unlocking it and walking inside. Harry follows him, looking around, breathing in deeply as he tries to catch a hint of anything out of the ordinary.

The inside of the house is as plain and innocuous as the outside. It looks as though an elderly couple moved away a few years back, leaving everything neatly arranged and waiting for their return. All he can smell is dust and the faint staleness of air left contained too long. He wrinkles his nose and follows Malfoy into the kitchen.

He's sitting at the table with his head in his hands.'It will wear off in another five minutes or so,' he says, Walter's thin voice muffled. 'Go and make yourself useful.'

Harry considers asking him if he needs any help, if maybe he just wants Harry to sit with him while he transitions back into himself. But in the end he walks back out of the room. He doesn't know what Malfoy wants from him and he's fucked if he has any idea what he wants from Malfoy.

He moves quickly through the house, opening windows just enough to let the fresh, cool air in. He checks the power is on and water is running and pokes his head into the two bedrooms to see they're both neatly made up. 

He puts his things on one bed and Malfoy's on another and tries to ignore the memory of waking up with Malfoy wrapped around him.

When he comes back into the kitchen Malfoy looks like himself again and is standing at the sink, filling the kettle. Harry can smell the fresh tang of coffee and the sweetness of tea leaves and he assumes Malfoy has another of those stasis pantries in this house.

He stands in the doorway to the kitchen for a moment, just watching Malfoy as he moves through the space, his familiarity making it clear he'd been here before, _lived_ here before. 

He finds his eyes wandering down Malfoy's body, watching the way his arse moves in his fitted trousers. He remembers, again, the feeling of Malfoy laid out against him, the warmth of his body and the scent of him rubbed into Harry's skin. He thinks the smell of it might be embedded in him now, in his mind, if not his body. The wolf shifts under his skin, restless, wanting to bury its nose in the smell that feels so right to it. Harry's eyes move, unbidden to the back of Malfoy's neck and the pale, exposed skin there. He can imagine—can _remember_ —how it feels between his teeth, how it tastes under his tongue.

At that moment Malfoy turns around. He doesn't seem surprised to see Harry standing there watching him, just leans back against the sink and crosses his arms. Harry stays where he is, leaning into the doorway and tries not to think about the way the light from the kitchen window makes Malfoy's hair shine.

'You kept your word,' Malfoy says.

'You didn't think I would?' Harry asks, surprised to feel that he's not offended by this comment. There's something in Malfoy's tone, something that makes him think they've been dancing towards this conversation for a while now.

'You're an Auror, Potter,' Malfoy says. 'Whether they sacked you or not. I wasn't sure if you'd be able to help yourself.'

Harry lets Malfoy's comment about him being sacked go. He has no idea how Malfoy figured that out, but it's the least important part of the conversation.

'Maybe I think there are more important things than apprehending a man who jumped parole to escape abuse?' Harry says, keeping his tone conversational. He realises, as he says it, that this is not a line, or a ploy. He absolutely believes it. What Malfoy did was survival, and he can't blame him for it. Not after everything he's observed over the last few weeks.

'What's more important than putting a Malfoy in prison?' Malfoy asks, unfolding his arms and putting them on the worktop behind him, leaning back in a way that makes his body all lean lines and lickable angles. Harry tries to focus.

He thinks of all the things he could say in response to this, and decides it comes down to just one.

'Veritas,' he says, and he sees Malfoy's eyes widen, just a fraction. 'Truth is more important.'

Malfoy watches him for a long moment, the look in his eyes intense and unreadable. Harry stays silent, meeting his gaze, feeling a strange tension rising between them.

'You can take it off,' Malfoy says, and his voice is slightly too loud in the silence of the room.

'What?' Harry says, his mind not following the Malfoy's words.

'The bracelet,' Malfoy says, looking down at Harry's wrist. 'I trust you. You can take it off.'

Harry stares at him a moment, shock running through him at hearing those words come out of Malfoy's mouth. _I trust you_. Then he looks down at his wrist, at the thin, dragonscale chain that's been wrapped around it for the last month. He looks at the item that he's been wrestling over, that's been directing his thoughts, encouraging him to slowly open up to Malfoy. What will happen when he takes it off? Will he suddenly change his mind about the way he feels now and want to call the Aurors in?

Harry makes a decision and stands up straight, moving further into the kitchen. He pulls his wand from his pocket and lays it on the table. Malfoy watches him with questions in his eyes, as Harry moves back to the doorway. He'd still probably be quicker to his wand than Malfoy would be to his, but at least this way Malfoy has a fighting chance if breaking the spell means Harry's going to put him in danger.

Harry looks down at his wrist and runs a finger lightly over the chain. Then he looks back up at Malfoy, a question clear on his face. Malfoy doesn't hesitate. He nods.

Harry takes a deep breath and slides his fingernail under the catch. He flicks it open with a snap that's loud in the tension that's growing in the room again. It opens and slides from his wrist. He catches it and throws it across the room to Malfoy.

Malfoy flinches slightly as the bracelet leaves Harry's skin, and he knows the spell has broken. He watches as Malfoy's hand darts out in response to Harry's throw. He snags the shining chain from the air without breaking Harry's gaze.

Harry takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He tries to analyse how he feels, without the control of the bracelet layered over his thoughts.

'Draco Malfoy is Veritas,' he says, eyes still closed. The words come easily. He feels no compulsion to run to the Aurors, none of the consuming rage Malfoy's presence had caused in him when they'd first come face to face.

He feels… exactly the same.

With that thought comes the flooding realisation that every thought, every fantasy, every slight unbending of his feelings towards Malfoy over the last month has been real—had come from within himself. He fancies Draco Malfoy. He thinks Draco Malfoy is a good person who needs to be protected.

The wolf in him wants to _mate_ with Malfoy.

'Fuck,' Harry says. He opens his eyes to see Malfoy watching him, curiosity written across his face. He can't even begin to explain himself, so he makes his way to the table and sits down heavily.

'Do you have anything to drink?' he asks, looking at the flower print of the tablecloth under his hands as he wonders just when this became his life.

He hears a small huff of laughter and Malfoy switches the kettle off, opening the fridge behind him instead. He pulls out two Stellas and passes one to Harry as he sits opposite him.

Harry cracks it and tilts the beer to his mouth, letting the cool taste of it wash over his tongue as he tries to come to grips with this new realisation.

'So what now?' Malfoy asks, as he picks gently at the edge of the label on his bottle, head tilted slightly as he watches Harry.

Harry feels his mind racing as he tries to figure out what Malfoy means. Does he know Harry is into him? Has he known all this time and been waiting for Harry to wake up and realise it too. _Had_ the Loyalty Bond been transmitting his thoughts and feelings to Malfoy all this time?

He looks at Malfoy, trying desperately to figure out what to say—what does Malfoy want him to say? How does Malfoy feel about _him_?

Malfoy clicks his fingers and Harry focuses his attention back on him.

'Whatever you're thinking about Potter, you need to calm the fuck down,' Malfoy says, as he takes a pull of his beer. Harry watches the long lines of his throat and the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. He wants to crawl over the table and lick it. He is so fucked.

'The case,' Malfoy says, as he puts his drink back on the table and reaches inside his pocket for his ever-present notes. He unshrinks them with a tap of his wand and lays them out on the table.

'What did you get from your attacker's memories?'

Harry looks down at the notes and forces himself to focus. He's better than this. Of course Malfoy isn't into him in the same way. None of that is important compared to what they're here to do, anyway: find those kids and bring them back.

He makes himself think back to what he'd seen in the memories.

'He was a good Occlumens,' Harry said. 'Even unconscious, all he gave up were fragments. I couldn't find a full memory among them.'

Malfoy nods his agreement. 'I saw a few faces I recognised. He's connected to Davies. That must be where the hit on us came from.' He doesn't say anything directly to Harry, but Harry can hear the censure in Malfoy's voice and he knows the reason Davies had become suspicious was because of him. He can't imagine a scenario in which he would have reacted differently to seeing those pictures though.

'I recognised an image from a warehouse we picked up a creatures dealer in a while back,' Harry says, thinking back through what he'd observed. His mind starts to shift back into gear, pulling the important information to the forefront and locking everything else into the background for him to consider later. He's always been good at compartmentalising.

'He was shipping unicorns into Russia,' Harry continues. 'The place has been shut down, though, so it must have been an old memory.'

He thinks again. 'That man, with the ginger beard. His name's Jonny Ross. I've picked him up a dozen times, connected with shady stuff, but nothing's ever stuck. We could glamour as a couple of Aurors and pay him a visit?'

Malfoy looks at him and raises his eyebrows, 'Impersonating an Auror is an offence, Former Senior Auror Potter.'

'So's stealing children,' Harry deadpans. 

Malfoy's answering grin is sharp and contains a dark glee that steals its way inside Harry's chest and sits lodged there. He is so fucked.

'The nightclub was there too,' Malfoy says, looking down to make a note on the paper in front of him. 'The one we visited a few weeks ago. How good's your memory? Can you write down every detail you remember from every image we got, and we'll compare notes?'

Harry nods and reaches for a piece of paper. Malfoy duplicates his pen and they both get to work. Empty beer bottles stack up to one side as the pile of notes in front of them grows. After a few hours, they've got six possible locations, three confirmed conspirators from Malfoy's list and another six faces. Neither of them have anything they think could be Mother.

But they have a date. September 13. It's the day of the next moon and it's close enough that they both think it's a likely abduction drop time. The man's thoughts had been laced with anticipation when he thought about the date. Evidently he likes to watch.

'We need to scout these sites,' Malfoy says, making a neat list of them as he runs a hand through his dishevelled hair. His face is flushed slightly from the drink, but there's not a hint of unsteadiness in his actions. He moves as though he's been reinvigorated, animated by the scent of the chase laid out before them.

In that moment there's something incredibly wolfish about Malfoy, and the beast in Harry yearns towards that—towards pack—someone to share the hunt with. He lets that feeling settle over him for a change, instead of trying to push it away. It feels so right that it hurts with a sweet kind of pain.

'Should we try and contact Davies again?' Harry asks as they're packing everything up. He doesn't want to. The idea of going anywhere near Davies again makes a possessive anger stir deep in Harry's chest, but he could still be useful as a lead.

Malfoy's made ham and cheese toasties and Harry sees him make a face at the way Harry's talking with his mouth full. He hums before answering. 'I've been thinking about it. I assume they'll know I lived through the attack, though you'd be better off choosing a different glamour so they don't ask too many questions about how you survived the Jimsonweed.' For a moment Malfoy looks like _he_ wants to ask some questions about how Harry survived the Jimsonweed, but he doesn't say anything.

'I think we should let Davies assume I've been scared off,' Malfoy continues. 'We'd both be better off in different identities as we scout these sites over the next few days, so we don't tip anyone off if we're seen.'

Harry nods. It makes sense.

'Bedtime?' Malfoy says, levitating the dishes into the sink. Harry's eyes snap to him and something flickers to life in his chest. Is Malfoy saying—surely not? 

But Malfoy doesn't make any indication that what he'd just said was an invitation and Harry forces himself to take a breath, finishing his toastie and brushing off his hands. He's being ridiculous. He needs to get himself under control.

'Good night,' Malfoy says, as he's leaving the kitchen, and Harry tries to ignore the trickle of disappointment those words give him. But then Malfoy pauses and something in his face is open and vulnerable in a way that Harry rarely sees.

'Thank you,' Malfoy says. 'For today.' And Harry hears more than that. He hears the loneliness of doing all of this by yourself, year after year. He hears the confusion of not knowing who you are anymore, and the loss of having no one who can connect you to who you were. Harry hears in Malfoy's voice something that sets that heat in his chest alight again.

'Any time,' he says in response. He hopes Malfoy can hear what he's not saying. Hopes he can hear Harry's willingness to be in this with him until the end—the end of the case, at least. He wonders what might come after that.

Malfoy gives him a small smile, and Harry thinks that maybe Malfoy can hear the words he doesn't say as well.

~

By unspoken agreement, they look at each of the sites together. Harry tells himself that Malfoy would feel uncomfortable if he were to disappear so soon after taking off the bracelet. The way he'd lain awake half the night thinking of Malfoy coming across Davies again and being hurt, or worse, tells him there's a lot more going on in his mind than just that.

They cross the warehouse off the list first. As Harry had thought, it's been shut down and is now semi-demolished. It's not a secure site someone would consider shipping stolen children through. 

Davies' office is easy to remove as well. Malfoy clicks away on his phone for a bit before he identifies a list of all the other tenants. He somehow comes up with a schematic of the building, which, while hard to read on the small screen, tells them that it wouldn't be the ideal site to move children through either. It's too open, has too many other parties involved.

'It's too much like shitting in your own bed,' Malfoy says, and Harry has to agree. Agreeing with Malfoy doesn't feel as painful as it once would have. It feels right.

The third site is a Muggle primary school. They glamour as a couple looking to enrol their daughter to view it. Harry ignores the tendril of wistfulness that the cover story gives him. He gave up on kids a long time ago. It had hurt too much, after Teddy. And now, especially now, with what he is… he couldn't do that to a child. He ignores the whisper inside him that says Malfoy would keep their family safe. That's the wolf talking, the need for a mate and cubs pulling at him. That's not what Harry wants.

He visits the school half lost in his own head. Afterwards he makes the connection to the disappearance of Josephine Bromley. She'd been a squib girl and had gone to school there. They hadn't been seeing a memory of a drop site, it was an abduction site. It makes Harry sick.

They move through two more the next day. The first is a back-alley potions shop in Knockturn, which Malfoy thinks is a possibility, but not likely due to the regular Auror patrols that area gets. The second is the Richmond Bridge Boathouses, which Malfoy only recognises from the memory because apparently he lived on a boat for a while. 

They spend a day sitting in a café together watching people coming and going. Malfoy makes small talk, telling him stories of people and places that belong to other times, other faces. The stories are the same though, no matter whose life he shares. Malfoy moves on alone, every time. 

That night Malfoy rents them a room at the Riverside and he spends the night Disillusioned and peering out the window, while Harry dozes on the couch and watches the way the moonlight chases shadows across his face.

They haven't spent the night in the same place twice since they left Malfoy's cabin. Both of them are starting to get more antsy now. Harry can see the tension in the lines of Malfoy's body, in the way his answers become sharper, his patience thinner. The wolf wants to wrap itself around Malfoy, to comfort him and let him draw strength and certainty from its presence. Harry thinks Malfoy might hex him if he tried.

It's the day before the potential drop time, and they still haven't managed to identify the sixth site. The boathouse is a possibility. It would be an easy way to bring someone on board a boat under the cover of darkness and move away along the river. Many of the boats are unregistered and there's no real monitoring of their comings and goings as far as Harry can tell.

They go over what they know about the final site again and again, but it amounts to frustratingly little. Dark spaces. Steel beams. A feeling of going down underground.

'We have to ask someone,' Harry says, for what feels like the fiftieth time.

'We're not asking anyone, Potter,' Malfoy snaps.

Harry glares at him. The full moon is tomorrow and he can feel its pull. It's making his blood stir and bringing his anger back to the surface. He wavers now between wanting to comfort Malfoy and wanting to shove him into a wall.

He finds his thoughts returning again and again to the children—to the idea that they might be able to do something about helping _just one_ of them. The idea that it might all fall apart because bloody Malfoy is too proud to ask for help makes his teeth ache from the way he clenches his jaw to stop himself from grabbing Malfoy and shaking him.

They're in a hotel room overlooking Buckingham Palace Gardens and Harry walks to the window. He feels trapped in his own skin, like he's going to burst if he doesn't get outside. His hip is aching a steady throb that reminds him that the moon is coming. He thinks of his potion, tucked away in his bag, and wonders when he'll need to take it. The wolf feels so much closer this moon.

'Fuck it,' Harry mutters under his breath as he walks back to the table and grabs his wand. He glamours himself into a young, thin, slightly nerdy looking college student, then transfigures his clothes to match.

'What are you doing?' Malfoy asks, his voice hard.

'Getting answers,' Harry says, modulating his voice to make it higher, giving himself more of the clipped tones of Malfoy's accent.

'Potter,' Malfoy warns, but Harry is already leaving the room, brushing through the wards. He hears a muttered curse from Malfoy behind him, then some quick spell work and a moment later, Malfoy is at his side. He sends a glare Harry's way, which looks kind of cute on the face of the patchy-bearded, pimpled twenty year old he's glamoured to look like.

'Nick,' Harry says, reaching across a hand as they walk. 'Nice to meet you.'

Malfoy ignores his hand, with a muttered, 'Prick, more like it,' and they make their way down the stairs and onto the street outside.

They wander for a bit before Harry finds a tourist information point. He flips through the maps as though undecided on what he needs and Malfoy joins him, though Harry can feel the simmering resentment under his compliance.

Finally Harry sighs, as though he hasn't managed to find what he's looking for, and approaches the white-haired man behind the desk.

'Excuse me, sorry,' he says. 'My friend here has a terrible memory,' he says, indicating Malfoy with a nod of his head. Malfoy narrows his eyes but doesn't say anything. 'And _his_ friend told him about this place you can visit. But all he remembers is that it's underground maybe, and there's steel beams everywhere? Maybe a tunnel?'

The man, whose name tag reads David, looks at him for a moment, seemingly considering it.  
'That's an interesting one,' he says. 'Number of tunnels all around Britain, o'course. Let me see.'

He turns around to the shelves behind him, which are stacked with brochures of all kinds.  
'Now, you got the Aberglasney gardens near Llangathen. O'course those tunnels are yew trees, so probably not the steel your friend is remembering,' he says, as he puts a brochure in front of them.

'Then there's the Chalk Walk at the Greenwich Old Royal Naval College,' he says, slapping another brochure down. 'Or the Margate Shell Grotto, that one's particularly beautiful, though again, not much in the way o' steel.'

Malfoy makes a small sound of derision behind him and Harry steps back half a pace, so that he stands squarely on Malfoy's toes. He hears a hiss of pain and moves back to his former position, as though he'd just been shifting his weight.

'We use'ta do tours of the London Sewers, but not so much now the healthies have gotten into everything,' David says, with a frown that makes it clear tourism should come before public safety.

'Let's see,' he says, turning back to his brochures. He makes a sound of triumph and Harry looks up. 'O'course,' David says. 'Why didn't I think of this immediately?'

He hands Harry a brochure and he reads the words 'Dover Castle: Wartime tunnels.' He looks at the picture on the cover and feels excitement flood through him. Beside him, Malfoy stiffens slightly and Harry knows. This is it.

'Fascinating place,' David continues. 'Whole network of tunnels carved into the cliffs over hundreds o'years. They were unearthed recently. Sheltered troops during the Napoleonic Wars, and then in the Second World War, they were the site of Operation Dynamo—the evacuation of Dunkirk. Fascinating stuff!'

Harry barely hears the words as he flips open the brochure and looks at the other pictures.

'Five levels of tunnels are open to the public,' David is still saying. 'You can purchase tour tickets here, if you like. The rest of the tunnels extend for miles, though they've been blocked off to the public. They pop out in all sorts of places along the cliffs. Fascinating stuff,' David repeats.

'Yes, absolutely fascinating,' Harry says. 'This is perfect, thanks. We'll definitely check it out.' He reaches out and sweeps all of the brochures into a pile, gives David a big smile before he turns to Malfoy.

'See,' he says, plastering an over-bright smile on his face. 'I told you we just needed to ask.'

Harry can see Malfoy's annoyance hidden under the spotted face of his glamour and that just makes his smile wider.

They go straight back to the hotel room, and as soon as they're inside, Malfoy turns and begins spelling his things into his bag.

'We'll need to drive,' he said. 'Apparating is still too risky if they've got a trace on our magic from the Marriot and wards up around this site.' Malfoy pulls his phone out and fiddles with it for a moment. 'It's just over three hours at this time of day,' he says. 'We should get there before dark.'

He picks up the brochure Harry's put on the small kitchen bench and flips it open, frowning. 'We're going to miss the last tour,' he says. 'So we'll have to break in. The drop is tomorrow. We need to know if that's the site.'

Harry thinks quickly through their options and then he nods. Malfoy's right. They're running out of time. He calls the few items not still packed in his bag to himself and shoves them in. Harry lets Malfoy take the lead and he has them in a taxi and on their way to another of his car stashes in minutes. 

They're glamoured as middle-aged war history buffs, apparently. Bill and Steve. Harry can't help but remember Malfoy's theatrics at school and wonder if the way that Malfoy's turned out wasn't inevitable.

Apparently 'Steve' knows all kinds of facts about Muggle Wars and feels no compunction about listing them all to Harry as they drive. Harry's torn between wanting to ask him how he knows all this shit and not wanting to ask him another question that might send him off on another tangent.

Malfoy parks them by the water, half a mile from the castle and he leads them to the wall that surrounds the Dover castle grounds. It's approaching dusk and there aren't too many people around as they stroll casually towards the expansive estate, as though they're just out sightseeing. 

The gates are closed, and Harry follows Malfoy's lead as he brings them into the shadow of an oak, its branches spreading out over the path. The fence is an easy thing to climb, thick stone with handholds everywhere. Harry glances back down to see the incongruous sight of Malfoy glamoured as an overweight, middle-aged Muggle in tweed, climbing lithely up a wall as though he'd trained for it.

Harry jumps to the ground on the other side, landing lightly and looking around. There's a thick snarl of trees all around them. This isn't the perfectly manicured grounds of a country estate. It's gone wild and he can smell something in the air—a mix of the tang of the salt air alongside something deeper… older. It calls to him in some primal way, like there's something under the earth, whispering to him. 

'Can you run a Disillusionment Charm as well as a glamour?' Malfoy asks, as he lands beside Harry and straightens up, looking around them.

'Since I was a first year rookie,' Harry says, and refrains from rolling his eyes.

Malfoy looks over at him, the hint of a grin on his face, and Harry realises he'd been teasing. The thought makes something twist inside him, something light and completely at odds with the situation they're in. His eyes drop to Malfoy's mouth and all of a sudden he has an overwhelming urge to pull him close and kiss him.

Malfoy breaks his gaze as he pulls his phone out and checks something. His cheeks have darkened slightly and Harry can hear his heartbeat. It's slightly faster than normal. Harry would attribute it to the short climb but Malfoy had been fine when he jumped.

'Do you need me to cast for you?' Harry asks, injecting innocent curiosity into his voice. He wants Malfoy to look at him again.

'The day I die, Potter,' Malfoy says as he casts the spell and immediately becomes much harder to see in the fading light.

They move off together, Malfoy checking his phone quickly to find the direction of the tunnel entrances. As they get closer, the grounds become a little more well kept, the scraggle of trees giving way to clean cut lawns and rolling hills. The public entrance is lit up by floodlights and double doors are recessed into a brick entryway cut into the hill.

Harry immediately knows this isn't going to work. It's too open and too well lit.

'There must be other entrances,' he says quietly to Malfoy, as they watch the space from under the cover of the trees. 

Malfoy doesn't say anything, just clicks away at his phone, before holding the screen up to Harry. The glow of it is bright in the fading light and he steps closer to shield it with his body. Malfoy takes in a small breath and Harry wants to lean in further, just those last few centimetres.

Instead he forces himself to look down at the phone. The image shows the network of tunnels under the surface. There are a number of entrances across the grounds, though only the one they're looking at now seems to be used by the public.

Harry moves off through the trees immediately, his eyes sharpening to pick up the details around him as night continues to deepen. It's cloudy, but he can feel the moon rising behind the clouds. It pulls at him, calling to him. He feels the wolf stir inside him, raising its head and scenting the night. _Soon_ , it whispers. Harry tells it to fuck off. He still has a day. _He_ is the one in control for one more day.

Behind him, Malfoy stumbles and curses under his breath. Harry pulls his attention away from the moon and turns, reaching out for Malfoy's arm. Malfoy tenses under his touch and Harry leans in to whisper, 'Can't risk a _Lumos_.'

After a second, Malfoy relaxes and Harry sees him nod in the darkness, though his eyes aren't quite fixed on Harry's. Malfoy pulls his arm away and then his fingers are bumping against Harry's. Harry catches them, reflexively. 

Malfoy makes a small sound in the darkness as Harry twines their fingers together. Harry doesn't stop to think about the feeling of Malfoy's slim, cool fingers in his. He can't. This is just a necessity so that they can move more quickly. That's all it is. For either of them. If he thinks about it he's going to pull Malfoy against him and bury his face in Malfoy's neck. He forces himself not to think of that as the wolf rumbles its approval.

He leads Malfoy on through the night. They find the first tunnel after a few minutes, but it's collapsed. Harry can smell old earth and the tang of metal far beneath. He leads them on and Malfoy doesn't complain. His grip is firm in Harry's and Harry marvels for a moment at the trust Malfoy is showing, letting Harry guide him into the night.

They pass two more tunnels in the next twenty minutes, neither smelling right to Harry. He doesn't know what he's looking for until they're deep in the most forested part of the grounds. He can smell the rich loam of the soil, the tang of pine needles and a whiff of air from far underground. Then he catches a scent that shouldn't be there. He smells a wolf.

His fingers tighten convulsively on Malfoy's, making him hiss in the darkness. 'What is it?'

Harry leans in closer so that he's pressed against Malfoy's side, their fingers still entwined. 'Davies is here,' he breathes in Malfoy's ear, just a hint of a sound. 

Malfoy shivers slightly, one hand coming up to grip Harry's biceps and Harry smells a hint of the heady musk of his arousal. He wants to press against it, bury himself in it. He breaths it in, feeling the wolf stir. The animal response snaps him out of the thoughts of how Malfoy will feel against him.

'Fuck,' Harry mutters in realisation. 'He's going to scent us. Do you know the suppression spells?'

Malfoy turns his head so that his cheek is pressed against Harry's, but the arousal fades from his scent, the sharpness of anger replacing it as he growls low in Harry's ear. 'Do I know the spells Aurors use to hunt wolves for sport? I'll give you one fucking guess.'

'No more talking,' Harry says. He steps back slightly and casts scent-deadening spells over both of them. He thinks for a moment and then casts a _Muffliato_ which will move with them. Davies has been this way recently, and he could be anywhere.

This close to the full moon, all of his senses will be running at their peak, just like Harry's are. He always feels sharper and faster just before the moon. He always feels so much closer to being the beast that is inside him. The wolf stirs, pressing at him, eager to be released. Harry forces it down. He'll do the reconnaissance tonight and then take the suppressant potion to fight the moon off tomorrow night. It will be fine. It's always been fine.

He tries not to think about what will happen if Malfoy needs him during the time that the potion lays him out, during the time where he can do nothing but writhe and cry with the pain of an aborted shift.

Malfoy tugs on his fingers and Harry realises he's been standing still for too long. He leads them forward into the mouth of the tunnel. He can smell others now, at least three individual scents. The only one he knows is Davies, but he'll remember the others now that he has them.

Almost immediately there is a set of rough-hewn steps, cut into the chalky material of the cliffs the castle is built on. They glow faintly white in the tiny amount of light coming in through the tunnel entrance. Harry can smell the way men have brushed against the side of the rocks on their way down. They've been here recently.

He wonders if they're the drop off or the pick up crew and the thought of either sets anger rising inside him. They descend into the rock for about forty steps before the ground levels out. The light is gone completely now. It's pitch black down here, but Harry doesn't dare create a light. Besides, he doesn't need one. He can hear the faint sounds of their passing bouncing off the walls around him, and he can smell the way Davies and the others have travelled.

Harry tries to focus on those things and not on the fact that he's far underground in a tunnel he could reach out and touch both sides of. This is not the same as the wartime tunnels in the brochures, made wide with steel and tin, for Muggle soldiers to shelter in.

Harry knows, somehow, that these tunnels lead to something much older. These tunnels were here far before those made by men. Harry shivers, at the closeness of the space and at the thought of what else might be down here with them.

Malfoy squeezes his fingers lightly and his grip is a solid reminder that Harry's not alone. He focuses on that, on the warmth of Malfoy's skin and the sound of his breathing in the darkness. He's not alone. Malfoy is here with him. The anxiety fades slightly and he continues on.

The tunnel diverges after about thirty paces and Harry follows the scents to the left. He considers telling Malfoy to leave some sort of magical trace on the walls, so that he can find his way back out if something happens to Harry, but he discards the thought immediately. Surprise is their only weapon here. They can't risk leaving something that could so obviously lead someone to them. He tries not to think about what Malfoy will do if something happens to him.

Davies' scent gets stronger the farther in they go. It hangs in the air, thick and rank, as though he has already become the wolf. Harry knows that's crazy. The shift won't come until tomorrow night. It can't.

But it makes it easy to follow him. The tunnels branch two more times and each time Harry leads them deeper into the maze under the hill. Behind him Malfoy follows on unquestioningly, his hand steady in Harry's.

They're getting closer, Harry can feel it. They've been moving south east, as though they're circling back towards the ocean. Harry stops at that thought, and tugs Malfoy forward a step until they're chest to chest. Malfoy tenses slightly but leans into Harry as he puts his mouth to Malfoy's ear.

'I think they're moving the kids in and out by sea,' he breathes, his lips brushing lightly against the shell of Malfoy's ear. 'These tunnels must lead out into parts of the coast that are unpatrolled.'

'Fuck,' Malfoy mutters and Harry knows it's agreement. He stays there a moment longer, breathing in the warmth of Malfoy's skin, so different from the cool, musky earth smell all around them. Malfoy is still in his grip, but his heartbeat is rising again and his breathing is beginning to come quicker. Harry breathes him in again, his grip tightening slightly as he tries to stop himself from pulling Malfoy against him.

He hears a faint rustle as Malfoy moves slightly, then the warmth of his skin disappears, but the smell of his arousal rises in the air again. Harry lowers his head, unable to help himself as he realises Malfoy has just tilted his head and bared his neck to Harry.

Harry runs his nose up Malfoy's neck, breathing him in and Malfoy gasps, a faint puff of sound in the darkness. Harry feels heat rush through him at the sound and he nudges against Malfoy's neck. He wants to bite him. Fuck, but he wants to shove him against the tunnel wall and mark him, rut against him until he comes and then bend him over and take him hard.

He closes his eyes, trying to stop the thoughts that are swirling through his mind. Malfoy presses against him, just enough that it's clear he wants Harry's teeth on his skin. Harry feels all the heat and wanting and need in him rush straight to his cock and his grip tightens on Malfoy's arms as he opens his mouth, grazing his teeth lightly down Malfoy's neck. 

Malfoy shudders in his grip and Harry smells the sharpness of his pre come. He rumbles a growl, low and possessive. Malfoy pulls him closer in response and Harry growls again. He can't help it. He needs to have Malfoy. Now. Fuck all the reasons this is a bad idea.

Then Harry hears a sound up ahead and he tenses, freezing. Malfoy goes still in his arms, and Harry realises he's heard it too. His cheek brushes against Harry's as he straightens and turns his head to listen. It's a footstep, a muttered word.

Harry turns in that direction immediately, letting the instinct to hunt burn through the instinct to mate. He has no hope of controlling what's going on inside him right now, he realises. He can only steer it. He tugs Malfoy behind him, their fingers somehow still linked. They need to see who is there. They need the evidence of what's happening. He knows the drop isn't until the next day but damn if they could have a chance of stopping it now…

Malfoy follows him silently, despite the fact he can't see a thing. Harry leads him on quickly, rounding a corner and pausing as he listens in the darkness. The sound had come from up ahead and to the left. He can smell Davies again, his scent heavy and challenging, daring the wolf in Harry to a fight. He wants to bare his teeth and take it up, howl at Davies to come for him. He doesn't. He's the man, not the animal. Even this close to the moon, he's the man. He has to be.

He moves forward. There's a chamber up ahead. He can hear the way the air responds differently to the faint movement of their passing. He wonders if it contains anything that could be used as evidence. There had to be things stored down here, especially if they were coming down ahead of time to prepare for a drop.

Harry pauses outside of the doorway, straining his ears, but he can't hear a sound within. Whatever it was must have moved further on up the tunnels. He debates whether to follow immediately or pause here and check the room. He can smell cloth, food, oil, and these things decide for him. Someone has been using this space.

He steps inside, pulling Malfoy behind him. The moment Malfoy's feet pass through the doorway, Harry knows he's made a huge mistake. He feels wards snap shut around them, echoed by a door slamming behind them.

He drops Malfoy's hand and spins around, growling into the darkness as he raises his hands, ready for an attack.

Nothing comes and a second later, he hears Malfoy's voice, a whispered ' _Lumos_ ', in the dark. Harry squints against the brightness, but looks around the room quickly as his eyes adjust to the soft blue light. There's no one in here with them, and no sign of magical attack.

They're just stuck, in a room that's less than five metres square. As Harry thought, there's a pile of crates in one corner, but aside from that there's nothing in the room except the smell of Davies, as though he'd rubbed himself against the walls. Probably had, the fucker.

Malfoy is already at the door, an _Alohomora_ at his lips. It does nothing and he curses, then looks at Harry, reaching for his arm. 

'Scouting mission is over,' Malfoy says. 'Let's go.' 

Harry closes his eyes, expecting the jerk of Malfoy's Apparition to take him, but nothing happens. When he opens them again, the look on Malfoy's face is grim.

'Anti-Apparition wards,' he says. 'Over this room at least, but probably the whole damned tunnel network, the luck we have.' He drops Harry's arm. 'Fucking _fuck_ ,' he says, kicking at one of the crates.

Then he stops and takes a deep breath, looking at Harry. 'Right,' he says. 'What's the play. It's a trap, obviously. Davies, I assume?' 

Harry nods and Malfoy looks around. 'Do you think he'll be back, or do you think he just wanted to keep us here?'

Harry thinks about that, about what will be happening outside that door in the next twenty four hours, about how close the full moon is now.

'I think he'll keep us here until the drop is done and then he'll come for us,' Harry says, thinking the wolf in Davies won't be able to stop itself from challenging him when the moon rises. 'He'll want to do the drop right before the moon rises, when he's at his strongest, but not yet able to shift. He'd be almost unstoppable at that point. He probably takes his suppressants right after the drop.'

The thought of how close a line it would be to run the moon like that sends a cold trickle of terror through him. Harry takes a step back as he realises the full impact of the situation they're in. 

Davies isn't the threat anymore. The moon will be rising in less than twenty-four hours. Even under the ground, he will feel its effects. And he doesn't have his fucking potion. _Harry_ is the threat.

'We have to get out of here,' Harry says, urgency racing through him at the prospect of shifting in this cage, of letting the beast inside him out while Malfoy is trapped in here with him. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ 'We have to get out now.'

Malfoy looks at him, for just a moment. He's still glamoured as fucking _Steve_ and Harry suddenly, irrationally, wants to tell him to wear his own face. He pulls his own glamour down with a sharp gesture. He's feeling tight under his skin, like he can't remember all of who he is. Wearing someone else's face does nothing to help with that. 

Malfoy watches his movement but doesn't question him, instead he walks to the door and begins studying it. It's carved with symbols and runes, intricate details that Harry hadn't noticed when the light had first come on. And now he's too agitated to look at them.

He can feel the wolf pressing at him, sensing his anxiety and his fear. It's always so much harder to hold it in when he isn't in control of himself. The hunt and Malfoy's closeness—the heady, rich smell of his want in the tunnels has only brought the wolf closer to the surface. Harry takes a deep breath and forces himself to try and relax. It doesn't work. Malfoy is kneeling by the door now, considering it, peering it at its details.

Harry wants to snap at him to just bloody open it, but he forces himself to bite his cheek until he can taste the hot tang of blood in his mouth. Too late he realises his mistake, as the wolf tastes the blood too and shifts in him, pushing its way closer to the front of Harry's mind. It wants out. It wants to fight and fuck. It wants to hunt and to mate.

Harry begins to pace. He hates small spaces. He fucking hates them. And now he's trapped in one and there's a wolf trapped in him and fucking Draco Malfoy is trapped with the both of them and he thinks he might just go bloody mad with the lot of it.

Before Harry realises he's moved, Malfoy is standing in front of him, gripping him by his shoulders and looking into his eyes.

'Hey, breathe, okay?' Malfoy says, Steve's muddy blue eyes looking into Harry's, lit up by the light of the wand Malfoy has pressed against Harry's arm.

Harry looks at him and takes a deep breath.

'That's it. Another?' Malfoy's voice and face are calm. There's not a hint of mockery or censure in his voice. Instead, he's focused intently on Harry's face. Harry looks at him, needing to see the real him.

Malfoy seems to sense that and he drops his glamour, his _Lumos_ dulling for a moment as he does so. His sharp features come back into view, his eyes shining silver in the light of his wand.

'Are you alright?' Malfoy asks and Harry can't lie, can't do anything but try and deal with the overwhelming, clawing, panicked need to get _out_. 

He shakes his head, and closes his eyes. 

'Is it being stuck in the room?' Malfoy asks and Harry clings onto that, anything but having to tell him what it really is.

He nods. 'Was forced,' he says, pulling in a breath. 'Cupboards.' He keeps his eyes closed, hating the way his voice shakes. He realises as he says it that it's true. Some of the panic that's bleeding into him is just about where they are.

Malfoy's fingers tighten on Harry's arms for a moment. 'I'm going to get us out,' he says, and his voice is solid and sure. 'You just need to stay with me while I do that.'

Malfoy tilts his head down and Harry opens his eyes to see Malfoy looking at him, face full of concern.  
'Can you do that, Harry?' Malfoy asks.

Harry takes another deep breath, breathing in Malfoy's scent, the familiarity of it calming him. He needs to be calm. This close to the full moon, if he loses his shit, he could do a lot of damage to Malfoy, shifted or not.

He nods.

'That's good,' Malfoy says, and his voice is soft, like he's calming a frightened animal. 'I'm going to go back to the door and you can sit with me, okay? Just watch how I breathe and breathe with me.'

Harry nods again and lets Malfoy pull him towards the door. He wants to feel embarrassed by his weakness, but all he can think is that Malfoy is calm and Malfoy knows what he's doing and Malfoy can be trusted. He can feel the wolf inside him rumbling its agreement and its pleasure at being close to the one who smells right. The wolf wants to lie at his side and curl itself around Malfoy. It wants to protect him from anyone who dares to touch him.

Harry contents himself with leaning slightly against Malfoy's side. He gets a slightly surprised look, but Malfoy doesn't move away and Harry closes his eyes again. He focuses on the feeling of Malfoy's chest moving against his arm and measures his breaths in time with Malfoy's.

They don't move for a long time, aside from Malfoy's small wand movements and murmured words. Harry can feel, as the hours drag on, that Malfoy's confidence is waning and his concern is growing. It puts the wolf on edge again, and makes it hard for Harry to relax. He doesn't want to take up his pacing again, but he's finding it increasingly hard to just sit next to Malfoy while the time slips past them.

He wishes he could _do_ something, but Malfoy has explained some of the magic of the door to him, as the time passes. It's Fae, much of the magic in the tunnels is, evidently. And it's layered with spells and woven with traps.

'Far too advanced for the likes of your paws, Potter,' Malfoy had said, as he cast a spell that lit the images on the door with liquid lines of blue, red and gold, like filaments shining in the sun.

Harry watches him work and marvels at the way he wields his magic, like a scalpel, or a needle, threading where it's needed to do the most damage. Harry's magic is like a club in comparison. He'd offered to just smash through the door, but Malfoy had pointed to the Strength Charms laid into the cross brace that fortified the middle. Then he'd pointed out the additional Severing Charms woven into them.

Harry had stopped offering to touch the door after that.

'I need to sleep,' Malfoy says at last, exhaustion layering through his scent. 'I've figured out about half of the pattern, but it's too delicate for me to do any more like this. I'll fuck it up and bring the cliff down on our heads.'

Harry nods, listening to his words and feeling the minutes trickle past as the moon looms larger in his vision. It's morning. He can feel it. Only twelve or so hours left until nightfall. He wants to yell at Malfoy, tell him he can't stop, it's too dangerous.

He wants to finish the spell himself, to rip the thing open. But he can't. He can't do either of those things. He has to let Malfoy sleep.

So he sits there in the darkness while Malfoy sleeps. The lights on the door fade and Malfoy's wand extinguishes as his concentration dies, but Harry doesn't light his. He just sits there, eyes open in the pitch black as he listens to Malfoy's slow breathing. In and out. In and out. He times his own by it and tries to think of nothing but Malfoy.

Four hours have passed by the time Malfoy stirs and wakes. Harry has been growing steadily more tense as each minute ticks by. He hasn't been this close to a full moon without his potion since the disastrous time he'd decided he hated it more than the thought of shifting. He'd ripped his house apart in his frenzy to escape and to hunt. Only the wards he'd forced Ron to build into Grimmauld had kept him from killing that night.

He can imagine how badly Malfoy will fare, with his soft, infinitely damageable body.

Malfoy groans as he stretches and when he lights his wand, he looks more tired than he had before he'd slept.

Harry hands him a flask of water he'd found in the crates while Malfoy had slept. There hadn't been any food.

'Did you get any rest?' Malfoy asks, after he's taken a drink.

Harry shakes his head. 'Can't.'

Malfoy frowns but doesn't argue. Instead he stands and moves to the far corner of the room. He hesitates for a moment and Harry wonders why, then he hears the distinct sound of a zip and a second later the sound of piss hitting the rock floor. Harry looks away, feeling something in his chest twist at this unsought sharing of space.

The scents of Malfoy are so much stronger in the air now. To a normal human nose, it would be a faint odour, soon absorbed into the rock. To the wolf, Malfoy has just marked territory. The only thing more appealing would be the smell of his come. The wolf surges forward at the thought of that and Harry grunts as he shuts his jaw tight and clenches his hands into fists.

He needs his fucking potion. He casts a _Tempus_. It's two in the afternoon. _Fuck_.

'How long until moonrise?' Malfoy asks as he moves back over to the door, sitting beside Harry. His cheeks are faintly red, and Harry can tell he's embarrassed by what he'd just had to do. But then the words of Malfoy's question catch up with him and Harry jerks his head up.

'What?' 

'Full moon,' Malfoy says. 'It's tonight. How long do we have?'

'Until Davies turns?' Harry asks, mind scrabbling for a reason Malfoy could be bringing this up.

Malfoy just looks at him, gaze serious. 'Until _you_ turn, Harry.'

Harry pushes to his feet, moving back and away from Malfoy and his words. He doesn't know. He _can't_ know.

'What… what are you talking about?' Harry asks, but Malfoy just looks at him.

'You normally take suppressants, don't you?' Malfoy asks, and there's no judgement in his tone. No fear or revulsion or anything Harry had expected to hear. There's just curiosity, and concern. Concern which seems to be _for_ him. Not about him.

'I'm assuming you haven't yet, for this cycle?'

Malfoy's tone is matter of fact and Harry knows there's no hiding it. Malfoy clearly knows, has known for—

'How long?' Harry asks and his voice is rough. His mind is spinning. He can't push himself into any sort of equilibrium—and sort of reality where Malfoy knows he's a werewolf.

Malfoy shrugs. He's still sitting on the ground and he looks perfectly comfortable. 'I've known for weeks.'

Harry looks at him, shock running through him. Surely not. Surely Malfoy would have said something. _Done something_ to give it away.

'How?'

Malfoy tilts his head to one side. 'It was a thousand things. You're good at hiding them but I've watched you half your life, Potter.' Malfoy smiles and there's something self-deprecating about it. 

'Plus, it's literally my job to watch people and learn things about them. You're faster now, stronger, and you certainly weren't that buff before you quit your job. They forced you out, didn't they?'

Harry feels his knees give out and he slides down against the wall until he's sitting, facing Malfoy from across the room. He stares at him for a long, long moment. A thousand thoughts run through his mind, but he circles back to one thing. Malfoy has trusted Harry with his secrets since the first day, unwillingly maybe, but Harry has known more about him the entire time.

'I was bitten,' Harry says, and he feels the words shift something inside himself; opening a part of himself that he has kept closed and hidden for what feels like a lifetime. 'On a job.'

Malfoy nods. 'That explains your hip.'

'What?' Harry says, unable to follow the way Malfoy is several steps in front of him with the conversation.

'Your hip. You favour it. I thought you'd had an injury which was part of the reason you left the Aurors but it's the full reason, isn't it? That's where the wolf bit you.'

Harry drops his hand to his hip, pushing lightly against the mess of scar tissue and pain that was his bite. 

'She was young,' he says quietly, the memories flowing back into his mind. He's tried so hard to forget. 'She transformed back after I killed her. She looked half-starved. I don't think she meant to turn me at all. Her wolf was just hungry.'

Malfoy sits, watching quietly, the darkness between them shining with the light from his wand.

'She nicked my femoral,' Harry continues. 'I would have bled out if Ron hadn't put me in stasis and taken me straight to Mungo's.' His mouth twists in a bitter recollection.

'The Healers refused to treat you?' Malfoy asks, and his tone is so matter of fact that Harry knows he's seen that before.

Harry shrugs. 'They were terrified. Robards had to come in and force them to save me, and then he Obliviated the lot of them afterwards. Only him and the Minister know the real reason they made me leave. And Ron,' Harry says and he can hear the bitterness in his own voice.

'They treated even you that way? Their precious Chosen One?' Malfoy says, and there is something disbelieving in his voice. Harry bristles with it.

'Do you think I would have gone if I'd had any other choice? Do you think I'd live like this'—he gestures to himself in a movement that takes in everything about who he is and what he does now—'if I had a choice?'

Malfoy appraises him and Harry feels his anger die back down. 'I think you're doing perfectly well for yourself now,' he says. Malfoy's face is filled with a complicated emotion that Harry can't quite read. The air between them feels charged with something unsaid.

After a long moment, Malfoy breaks Harry's gaze to look back at the door. 'I should probably get us out of here though.'

Harry comes back to himself with a start and casts a _Tempus_ again. It's six hours until moonrise. They'd spent at least an hour walking down here the day before.

'You need to hurry,' he says.

Malfoy turns back to the door and begins casting his charms again. Harry can't continue watching him. It's moving too slowly. He can feel the singing of the moon in his blood. Soon it will be a song he can't resist. 

He knows what he looks like, when he turns, knows the monster he becomes. They'd told him—the two Ministry-sanctioned Healers who had managed his case after the incident—after the bite. Back when there had been a possibility he would still be okay. 

They'd had to let him turn, that first time, had to see if he was full wolf, or only just affected, like Bill. If only he could have been like Bill.

Harry glances back at Malfoy, hair shining in the light of his wand. It falls forward over his forehead as he works, wand movements graceful and sure.

Malfoy could never see the wolf. It would be his death. Death in the form of a shaggy black monster, its coat a twisted perversion of the tangled mess of Harry's hair. His body a sick meld of man and beast, the most monstrous parts of both. He wonders if his eyes will be the last thing Malfoy sees. The same, bright green eyes remaining, while every other part of his humanity disappears.

Malfoy makes a sound of satisfaction and the ribbons of gold running up and across the door vanish. 

Harry steps forward but Malfoy holds out a hand. 'That was only the first part, Potter,' he says. 'I would highly advise against touching.'

Harry stifles a growl and begins to pace. He can't help it now. The wolf needs to run, to stretch its legs. It wants to hunt in the caves and the forest above.

Malfoy looks over at him. 'Hold on, Harry,' he says. 'I'll get us out in time. I promise.'

Harry looks away. He hates that Malfoy knows this about him. Hates that _he's_ the thing they need to be afraid of now.

'We're going to miss the drop,' he says instead, forcing himself to focus on his underlying anxiety. He thinks about whatever poor child is probably being carried through the caves right now, headed for a ship that will take them far from home.

Malfoy glances at him and grits his teeth, before he turns his attention back to the door. Harry can read the frustration written all over him, but he continues working slowly and methodically.

It's another two hours before the blue lines disappear from the door and then it's just the shining red—strands like blood dripping down the wood.

Harry doesn't cast the _Tempus_ again. He doesn't need to. He can feel the moon in the sky. It's less than an hour away.

'When was the last time you let the wolf out?' Malfoy asks, not turning around, as he continues to work on the door.

Harry stiffens and looks across at him. 'Only twice. That first time, when we needed to see if I'd turned, and then once more, by accident. I didn't understand what it would do, to be like that.'

'So you have no idea what will happen this time?' Malfoy asks, and his tone sounds deceptively casual.

Harry frowns. 'I know exactly what will happen. I'll turn into a monster and then I'll rip you apart.'

Malfoy turns to face him, still sitting, one hand dangling over his knee. 'I don't think you will,' he says, his voice completely steady.

Harry barks out a laugh and takes a step closer. There's nothing humorous in the sound of his voice. 'You're insane. The thing in me is a beast. It's not me. I can't control it. It will come out and it will kill you.'

Malfoy purses his lips and shakes his head. 'You're wrong. The wolf _is_ you, it's just the animal part of you that most of us keep locked safely away. I've been watching you, and your wolf, for weeks.' Malfoy pauses and his face turns sharply knowing. 'Your wolf wants me more than you do, Harry. I don't think death is what I have to fear from that side of you.'

Harry bares his teeth while inside him the wolf howls its agreement, pushing him towards Malfoy. Harry forces it away, but it's getting harder and harder. The moon is so close now. He can't deal with what Malfoy's just said—with what he _knows_ about Harry.

'Just get the fucking door open. And tie me up with something.'

Malfoy turns his attention back to the door, but ignores Harry suggestion for the ropes.

'I'm serious, Malfoy,' Harry says. 'It's getting too close now. You need to tie me or stun me or something.'

'You won't hurt me, Harry,' Malfoy says, looking over his shoulder with a sharp-edged smile.

'I've hurt you plenty of other times,' Harry says, clenching his fists and feeling his nails dig into his palms. They feel sharper and the pinpricks of pain send his emotions spiralling higher.

'And I've hurt you,' Malfoy says with a shrug, turning his back to Harry again. Harry can't figure out if he wants to go over there and shake some sense into him or rub his scent all over him as he grinds his cock against him. He's hard again. Malfoy and the moon and the way the wolf is prowling in him are mixing inside him until he can't tell what he needs anymore.

He growls in frustration but Malfoy ignores it, continuing to work.

Harry's getting desperate, considering if he can stun himself, when Malfoy makes a final sound of triumph and the red lines wink out of existence, the door swinging open. He stands stiffly and then reaches back to grab Harry's hand. He pulls the both of them into the corridor, slamming the door shut behind them. It immediately glows and then dims.

Harry glares at him as he realises what's just happened. 'You should have left me in there.'

Malfoy shakes his head. 'I'm not killing you, Potter. There's no way you'd be able to get yourself out of there.'

'Apparate then,' Harry says. 'Now.' He can feel the change shifting under his skin. It's even stronger now, as though the room they'd been in had been suppressing some of the moon's call.

Malfoy looks at him for a moment and then turns on the spot. Nothing happens and Harry curses. Fucking Fae bastards. Can nothing be easy?

Malfoy just shrugs, seemingly unaffected by the fact that he's trapped underground with a werewolf about to turn. Harry needs to make him see sense. Needs him to listen. To be safe.

'Draco,' he says, and Malfoy's eyes widen slightly at the use of his first name. Harry ignores the way it feels right in his mouth. _Draco_ , the wolf rumbles, _Mine_.

'You need to leave now,' Harry says, clenching his hands into fists to stop him from reaching out. 'Get as close to the surface as you can. Find another room to hide in. Disillusion yourself or something. And for Merlin's sake hide your fucking scent again.'

Malfoy just stands there, arms crossed, watching him, the light from his wand making his eyes shine with a devilish light.

'You won't hurt me, Harry,' he says, and there's a hint of something dark and excited in his voice.

'I won't be able to help myself,' Harry says, his voice rising as he feels his teeth begin to sharpen in his mouth.

'Yes, you will,' Malfoy says, looking him dead in the eye. Then he takes a step forward, leaning into Harry's space and rubbing their cheeks together as he speaks in Harry's ear, voice low and husky. 'Because if you kill me, you'll never get to fuck me.'

Harry brings his hands up, almost against his will, to pull Malfoy against him. He groans as the thought of fucking Malfoy—of holding him down and filling him up—flashes into his mind. 

The wolf within him howls in pleasure at the image and the thought of it pushes him closer to losing control. He shoves Malfoy away and he stumbles back a step, a grin on his face that Harry wants to shake off him.

'You need to get out of here right now, Malfoy,' Harry says and his voice is laced with desperation and a steadily-growing hunger. 

The moon rises above him and Harry can feel the exact moment it becomes impossible to resist.

'And for fucks sake,' he closes his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath. He looks at Malfoy, cursing himself and Malfoy and every other fucking thing that had brought them here. 'Don't run.' 

Malfoy looks him dead in the eye and winks.

And then he turns and runs.


	9. Chapter 9

Harry feels the wolf leap into the forefront of his mind. He tries to force it down, push it away. Give Draco more time. Just a little more time to escape him. 

He pulls his wand from his pocket and raises it to his temple. His grip on it is shaky—his fingers don't want to respond to him. The word "Stupefy" is on his lips, but he can't speak it, can't even think it with enough intent to make the magic work.

He feels the wolf's savage glee at his failure. It won't be denied. Not anymore. It knows what it wants and it's so close to freedom. Harry can taste its rage and its burning need to shift. To run. To tear and rip and kill.

It howls in his mind—a sound that echoes through his consciousness until it drowns out every other thought with its power. Harry screams with the strength of it, the overwhelming rushing _force_ of it.

His scream echoes down the tunnels but he doesn't hear it. He's lost to the feeling of his body beginning to shift and change. His cries change too, agony lacing them as his bones break and grow, lengthening and rearranging. His hips crack and distort and he falls to his knees.

He cries out again, a helpless sound of fury and anguish, then his vocal cords begin to twist, his jaw cracking and lengthening. He feels his clothes tear and fall away. His teeth sharpen and his scream turns into a howl as he tries to hold on to the last shreds of himself. He digs his claws into the ground beneath him, scraping deep furrows in the earth.

The wolf turns on him, snarling, biting at him until it forces him into submission. This is its time, and it won't be bound by his human weakness any longer. Harry fights it. He fights so hard, but he can feel himself losing, drowning in the sea of alien instincts that are flooding through him. His last thought, before he slips away, is that he hopes Draco doesn't suffer.

 _Hunt_.

The word is strong in his mind, the instinct running through him as he shakes himself, settling into his skin. He stands on his hind legs, raking the ceiling with his long, distorted finger-claws, tearing chunks from the earth with a snarl. He is Wolf. He is power and fury, death to anything before him. He is as he should be.

He throws his head back and howls, loud and triumphant. The sound echoes through the tunnels all around him, amplifying his call, and he snaps his jaw shut, satisfied he has made himself known.

It is dark all around him but he doesn't need his eyes. The scent of what he seeks is rich in the air.

 _Hunt_.

He drops to all fours and runs. It's a loping, disjointed gait, but he could run all night with it. The one he seeks is fast. The scent of him streaks through the tunnels, a shifting maze of twists and turns. But following is as easy as breathing and his claws eat the earth.

 _Hunt_.

There is light ahead, and the smell of the sea, the salt of it bleeding into the air. He slows as he approaches. Not because he is afraid. He has nothing to fear. No, he needs the anticipation. He needs his quarry to know he's coming. Needs the savage release that comes at the end of this hunt.

He pushes himself to his hind legs as he steps into the cavern, lit up by the light of a stick. The one he hunts stands in the middle, stick by his side. He doesn't smell of rank fear the way he should. His gaze is steady, silver eyes shining in the darkness. He is wary, ready to fight, but he holds still. He watches.

Something stirs inside Wolf. A voice shouts, fighting to be heard. _Don't hurt him_. Wolf turns on it, biting it into submission again. He wishes he could kill it. _He_ is in charge now. 

He takes a step forward, watching as the man's eyes travel up his powerful form. His claws clench into fists, pricking at him as he thinks about grasping what is before him. Wolf knows he is big, towering far above the human, barrel-chested with a strength that could tear him to pieces. But still, there is no fear.

He takes another step, flaring his nostrils to breathe in the scents before him. The fearless one smells of anticipation. Of loneliness. Of rightness. He smells of hours—of _moons_ —of taking in his scent through feeble human senses.

He smells of _Harry_. Of home.

'Hello, Harry,' the man says softly, looking him in the eye. He drops his gaze, tilting his head so his neck is bared as he looks at the ground. His scent doesn't change. There is still no fear, no intent to run.

Wolf rumbles in satisfaction at that and drops to all fours. He stalks forward, watching as silver eyes track him from under lowered lashes. The man's grip is firm on his stick. It's a weapon. The man will fight, he knows. This he approves of too.

He moves closer still, until his muzzle is inches away from the man's face. The eyes watch him still, not meeting his directly. Giving him just enough deference that he doesn't have to put the man in his place.

The scent of him has changed again. It's richer. The anticipation in it merges with a deep satisfaction that pulls at something in Wolf. He needs to get closer. He needs to understand it.

He brushes against the bare, vulnerable throat in front of him. He could tear it out in an instant, he knows. Hot blood spraying into the darkness. Instead he nudges it, rubbing his shaggy fur against the skin. He draws back for a second and sniffs.

The man still smells of Harry. He needs to smell of Wolf. He rumbles his dissatisfaction and steps closer, pushing hard against the man. He takes half a step back and his arms come up to grasp the fur at Wolf's shoulders. But he doesn't fight or try to escape. He only steadies himself.

Wolf's rumble changes to pleasure and he rubs himself in earnest against the body in front of him.

He hears a soft laugh and words he doesn't understand. 'Only you, Potter. You big puppy.'

He focuses on scent marking. He brushes against the body in front of him again and again, rubbing himself on every part he can reach.

 _Mine_. The word echoes through his mind, and it feels right. This man is his. Will be his. Has been his from the beginning.

 _Mine. Mate_.

He knocks his mate back a step with his chest, pushing into him more forcefully. Hands clench tighter in his fur and the words are back.

'Easy, Harry. You're okay.'

He pushes again, putting his forearm out so his mate trips, falling to the ground, then he crouches over him. Touch marks scent. But mating is better. A bite will show any rivals that his mate cannot be touched.

Just the thought of another wolf touching what is his has him snarling savagely, looking around into the darkness.

Below him, his mate has stilled and his words are coming again. Quicker now, though still making no sense.

'Harry. You don't want to do this. I'm not saying I wouldn't be adverse, one day, with a whole lot more communication and a whole lot more prep, but—'

Wolf snaps at the stick that's pointed at him. His mate shouldn't threaten him. 

'Potter,' the tone is warning now. Wolf ignores it. 'Don't make me stun you.'

He bends his neck and rubs his head against the scent of what he wants—what he needs. It's musky and enticing, and he feels himself thickening. His mate's scent is changing, sharpening. He should read it. Should understand it. But he wants, now. He's waited, trapped inside a body that won't act for too long. Now is his time to take what is his.

He sits onto his haunches, his claws coming up to gather the layers of fabric between him and what he wants. The stick is in his face now and his mate has his teeth bared in challenge. Wolf bares his back and clenches his fists to tear the barrier away. 

A howl echoes through the tunnels and he jerks his head around, ears flattening to his skull as he registers what it is. He snarls, surging to his feet.

All thoughts of mating disappear from his mind and he feels hot rage flood through him. He tilts his head back and roars his challenge in return. Then he looks down at the man on the ground and bends, nudging him back to his feet with sharp, hurried movements. He needs to be away. He is too soft. He needs to be protected.

His mate stands and for the first time Wolf smells his fear. He points at the tunnels and begins jabbering again, pulling at Wolf's arm. He pushes the man back against the wall and takes up a position in the middle of the room.

Behind him there are more words, anger sharpening them. He lets them wash over him, lets his mate's anger flow into his own. No wolf will touch what is his. His mate does not have to fear. 

He hears another howl, much closer this time, and he returns it, urging the challenger on. Red begins to tinge the edges of his vision and he claws at the ground with his hind legs. The moon's strength surges in him, heating his blood.

The light in the cavern is brighter now and he looks up to see a ball of light floating near the roof. He disregards it. He can hear the thudding impact of the other wolf as he races through the tunnels and he lets out another roar, dropping to all four legs.

He waits only a moment before silver bulk erupts from the darkness, leaping into the cavern towards him, crossing the floor in an instant. Wolf dodges sideways and slashes his claws out, raking a cut along the silver male's side. His thick coat absorbs it and the silver spins, snapping his jaws shut inches from Wolf's hind legs.

He's big, an old male, an alpha for far longer than Wolf has been. He's fast despite his bulk, but Wolf is faster. He digs his claws into the ground and launches himself at the silver, smashing chest first into his side and gripping him, razor sharp claws finding their way through the matted pelt and digging into the flesh below.

The silver roars, the sound deafening and Wolf feels teeth slice into his shoulder. He drops to the ground, pulling the silver down with him. Wolf brings his hind legs up and shoves with all his force, sending the silver flying over his head.

He snarls as teeth are ripped from his shoulder, but the sting of pain barely registers as he realises the silver has landed near his mate. Wolf launches himself across the room, hitting the silver, jaws closing around his arm at the same time as a jet of red light hits the huge wolf.

Wolf glances at his mate, stick extended and fury on his face as the silver male staggers back, hitting the wall with a thud that shakes dust from the ceiling. Wolf releases his bite, jaws closing higher up. He feels hot blood in his mouth as he sinks his teeth into the silver's neck.

The silver's body convulses and Wolf feels agony spear his chest as claws stab into him. He releases his bite involuntarily and the silver shoves him away, sending him staggering back across the room.

Immediately there is another jet of red light and the silver male roars his anger at the impact. He leaps towards the man attacking him.

Wolf's vision goes red with rage and he feels a white-hot fury rise up in him, coming from somewhere deep in his mind.

 _KILL HIM_ , Harry demands and Wolf feels the man's strength add to his own as he springs across the room, crashing into the silver wolf mid-air. He brings them both to the floor as he begins to bite and tear, a vicious blur of movement.

The silver fights back but Wolf barely feels the impact of his wounds as they tumble over and over, snarling and savaging at each other.

He can hear his mate yelling something but it's lost in the rage that flows through him, the thirst to rip the silver apart and bathe in his blood.

 _Harry_ hears it though. Harry understands.

 _Get back_ , he shouts at Wolf. _Now_.

Wolf pushes him away. He doesn't want to listen. Only wants to fight. But he's hurting now. Getting slower. The silver male seems to know it. He gets more and more blows in. Their blood is scattered across the chamber, soaking the floor.

 _Jump_ , Harry screams at him. Wolf looks at his mate, standing with his legs apart and his stick raised, a look of determined fury on his face. He disengages his claws, then he jumps backwards, as far as he can reach.

A second later a bright green flash fills the air, and shouted words that smell of death echo in his ears.

Wolf hits the ground hard, scrambling back into a crouch immediately, but there's no need. The silver isn't moving. He's fallen to a heap in the middle of the cavern, and blood is steadily pooling from under him.

Wolf slumps back to the ground, the pain from his wounds flooding into him. His mate comes towards him, hesitating a few paces away. Wolf closes his eyes and whines. He doesn't know what he needs, but everything hurts, now the threat has gone.

A moment later there are gentle hands on him, rubbing at his ears and cupping his muzzle. Words fill the air, soft and calm. He relaxes, and whines again as the shift in movement sets his wounds throbbing.

He feels a tingling prickle rush over his skin, sinking into him, numbing some of the pain. His mate is caring for him. He feels a touch to his forehead and opens his eyes to see silver eyes looking into his. He rumbles his pleasure at the proximity and his mate smiles.

Then he steps back and gestures across the cavern again, to the tunnel at the other side. His meaning is clear. They need to leave.

Wolf eyes the body lying in the middle of the cavern and curls his lip at it, baring his teeth. It's a man again, grizzled grey hair soaked with blood, eyes unseeing. Part of him wants to rip it to pieces, but he's tired. He needs to heal. So he follows his mate when he walks from the cavern, nudging him in the right direction as they approach each junction.

When they get back to the surface, Wolf stands on his hind legs and tilts his head back to look at the moon. He can see it shining through the canopy of trees above them. He draws in a breath and sings his triumph to it.

He hears a word beside him, ' _Muffliato_ ,' but his mate doesn't try and stop him from proclaiming their victory. He howls and howls until the feeling of it vibrates in his chest, then he drops to all fours.

He can feel the healing burning through him, as his wounds knit and close. They're hot and itchy and the process saps his strength. He wants to run, but he needs to rest.

He hears words beside him and looks at his mate, cocking his head to the side as he tries to take them in.

'I'm going to do something very stupid now, Harry,' his mate says and Wolf whines at his lack of comprehension, leaning in to rub himself against the man again.

'I'm going to Apparate us, and hope that when you land you don't want to rip me apart. Sound okay?'

Wolf whines again and then the stick is out and his mate is touching him. The world blurs and twists.

~

Wolf hits the ground hard, claws digging into the wooden floor beneath him, gouging furrows in it. He snarls at the renewed shockwave of pain that travels through him.

His mate is several paces away and the stick is in front of him again. Wolf looks away from him, shaking his head as he tries to understand. He breathes in the scents around them and realises where they are. At once he feels relief and anger rush through him. The relief he knows is from Harry and he forces it away.

The anger is from him. This is the den that traps him – that hurts him when he tries to leave. He looks over at his mate, growling. There are more words, the tone soothing, but Wolf doesn't want to listen. He growls and turns, making for his den, the place that smells of animal and not man. He'd ended up there the last time he'd been freed, after he'd raged all night against the thing that keeps him trapped, instead of running free as he should be.

He climbs the stairs, claws digging into the wood and pain throbbing through him. He curls up in the nest, feathers flying into the air as he moves, finding a place that doesn't press on his wounds.

He can’t sleep, not with the moon so high, but he closes his eyes and rests, feeling his body strengthening slowly. The rage in him is a simmer. He doesn't want to tear the den apart and hunt this time. He has had his kill for the night. He and his mate are a pack now, they have hunted together, and that is enough to let him rest.

The moon has almost set when he feels his mate enter the room, padding on silent feet to sit across from him, leaning against the wall. He feels Harry inside him, stirring and reaching out with his awareness. There's a softness to his thoughts that Wolf doesn't feel the need to push away.

He opens his eyes to his mate and they watch each other in the semi-darkness, as they both wait for the moon to fade from the sky.

~

Harry groans and stretches as he wakes. His whole body aches, with different levels of sharpness. But at the same time, he feels invigorated. Renewed. He feels like he could take on the world. The events of the night before come crashing through his mind and he realises why he feels so good.

He blinks his eyes open and looks across the room. He's in Grimmauld Place, in Buckbeak's old room. Draco must have assumed Harry's wards would allow a Side-Along. Fucking idiot. He could have been killed if they didn't. He looks over. Draco is still sitting against the wall, watching him.

'Hi,' Draco says softly, and that one word holds a whole host of things unsaid.

'Hi,' Harry replies, and his voice is croaky. He remembers screaming, roaring, howling. He grimaces and his skin feels tight. He looks down and realises he's naked and blood is splashed all over him. Half-healed wounds litter his body, red and angry against his skin.

'Fuck,' Harry says.

'Indeed,' Draco says, and his lip quirks. 'I possibly need to thank Davies for his timing.'

Harry remembers fragments of the need that had been driving him—driving the wolf in him. The need to take Draco, to bite him and to mate him.

'Sorry,' he says, looking away as he pushes himself to a sitting position.

Draco shrugs, not getting up. 'All in all last night could have gone a whole lot worse in a number of ways. I think we both handled it quite well.'

Harry doesn't want to be reassured by him. All he can think of is Draco's soft, infinitely vulnerable body beneath his.

'I could have killed you,' he says, flatly. 'What you did was stupid and risky.'

Draco's eyes narrow. 'It was a calculated risk,' he says. 'And it paid off exactly how I thought it would.'

'I could have _raped_ you,' Harry says, and his voice cracks on the word. He feels sick at how close he'd come to it.

'I would have Stunned you first, Harry,' Draco says, looking earnestly at him. 'I wouldn't have let your wolf do that to either of us. Not without talking about it first.'

Harry can't engage with that comment right now.

'I need a shower,' he mutters and stands. He ignores the fact that he's naked and stumbles out of the room, heading downstairs to his old bathroom.

He turns the water up as hot as he can stand and moves under the spray, letting it wash over his face until he almost can't breathe through the curtain of water. It stings as it runs over the cuts and bites littering his body.

He looks down to see a muddy brown stain flowing from his body and down the drain. He's covered in blood. His and Davies'. He tries to feel some sort of regret for Davies' death, but all he can think of is the images of the children he'd shown Draco and the fury of his attack in the caves. 

All he can think is how close Davies had come to hurting Draco.

He can't think about Draco, so he thinks about the children as he washes the violence from his body. They hadn't saved whoever had been moved the day before. There is one more child out there right now, crying for home. He feels the horror of it curl through him.

All they have to go on are three new scents. Davies is dead. He's no use to them now. Unless Draco has something, they're worse off than when they started.

He stands under the water for a long time, feeling the heat of it sting against his skin until he can't stand it anymore. He shuts it off, pulls a musty towel out of the cupboard and dries himself roughly, heedless of the way it pulls at his healing wounds. Some of the shallow ones have already disappeared, but the wound on his shoulder is still deep, teeth marks ringing the joint. There are also cuts all across his chest, like knives dancing up his ribs.

Harry goes back into his room and pulls a pair of joggers and an oversized shirt from the cupboard. He puts both on, wincing as the movement pulls at his shoulder, and heads back downstairs, bare feet padding silently on the stairs. He can see the gouge marks from the wolf's claws, and he shudders to think of Draco being trapped in the house with it last night.

Draco is in the kitchen and he's showered too, though he's wearing the same clothes, the bloodstains showing faintly on them despite the Cleaning Charms he's clearly performed. He's busy at the hob and Harry smells bacon and eggs. A pot of tea steeps on the kitchen table.

Harry stands in the doorway for a moment, just watching him and the way he moves around Harry's kitchen like he's been there a hundred times before. He watches Draco and lets himself think, for the first time, about just how amazing what he'd done the night before had been.

He'd trusted Harry. Even when he was a monster, he'd trusted Harry not to hurt him. He'd cast an _Avada_ at the end. Harry remembers the flash of green light. Draco had saved him. Saved them both. He's smart and resourceful and has more courage in him than Harry ever realised.

As he watches Draco, the urge to wrap his arms around him and breathe him rises in him. He wants to bury his face in Draco's neck, feel his warm skin under his touch. He wants his body against Draco's, just so he can hold him and feel the life in him, reassure himself that Draco is alive. Is okay. Despite everything, he's okay.

Draco looks around, and startles for a moment when he realises Harry has come silently downstairs. But then he smiles, and his smile has a hint of softness to it that goes straight to Harry's chest. He feels something within him shift, and hears the whisper of the wolf's thoughts. _Mate_. He doesn't know how to deal with the surge of emotion rising in him. Draco wouldn't want anything to do with him now—if he ever had. Harry had almost assaulted him the night before. He's a monster. Despite what Draco says, Harry knows Draco wouldn't have been able to stop him.

He sits at the table, looking down, so it's only from the corner of his eye that he can see the way Draco's smile turns into a frown. It's for the best. Even if Draco has some crazy idea that he might be attracted to Harry, Harry is far too dangerous for him to be around. 

The kitchen is silent, aside from the sounds of food frying in the pan. Harry busies himself pouring a cup of tea and sits with it cradled in his hands. He looks up when Draco places a plate of food in front of him. It's piled high: half a dozen pieces of toast, what must be a whole pound of bacon, eggs layered amongst it. As he looks at it, Harry realises he's starving. He hasn't eaten for the past two days and the shift burned all of his energy.

He mutters a quick thanks and picks up his knife and fork, shovelling the food into his mouth, barely blowing on it before taking his next mouthful. Inside him, he can feel the wolf's contentment that Draco is taking care of them—is providing for them. Harry wants to tell it to shut up, but the same feeling of contentment is flowing through him. He watches surreptitiously as Draco sits opposite him, the bitter smell of his coffee wafting over as he starts on a scaled-down version of the same meal.

It's _nice_ sitting here, in his house, with Draco, having breakfast. Nice in a way that he doesn't want to look at too closely. He's had breakfast with Draco a bunch of times, basically every morning for the last six weeks. But something about this feels different: the fact that they're in his house, or the fact that there are no more secrets between them.

Draco knows exactly what he is and he's still sitting there, calmly sharing a meal he's made for Harry, as though it's the most normal thing in the world. The thought of this _being_ normal, of him getting to have this, always, bubbles up into his mind and he can feel the wolf leap on it, pushing it harder at him.

He can't think about that now. The whole thing is too overwhelming. He finishes off the last of his food, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. Draco looks across and there's faint amusement on his face as he puts another forkful of his own half-finished meal to his mouth.

'So what now?' Harry says, clearing his throat and ignoring the warmth that grows in his chest at Draco's unspoken teasing. 

Draco swallows and takes a sip of coffee before he speaks. 'What now, what?' he asks, gesturing between Harry and himself. It's a clear question about whether Harry wants to discuss where they stand after the night before.

Harry shakes his head, perhaps too quickly judging by the faint sourness that fills the air once he's done it.

'The case,' he says, 'we have nothing. We didn't save the kid—we don't even know if they moved the kid. And now Davies is gone, we have no leads.'

A thought occurs to him, something that's been ticking away in the back of his mind. 'Should we go back to the caves?' He hesitates, and then continues. 'I could see if I could get a stronger scent read on what went on there last night? There might be other evidence left?'

It feels so strange—so wrong—to refer openly to the part of him that he's been so careful to keep hidden. But Draco doesn't even blink at the reference to his other senses. He shakes his head. 'I think it's too risky. We don't know what sort of follow up they might do the day after a drop, or what other traps are laid down there. That magic—the room we were in—it's old magic. I don't think the people that are activating it have a particularly good handle on what it does.'

'So, what?' Harry says, pushing his plate away, a bit more forcefully than he meant to. He can feel energy running through him, so much leftover strength from the shift. A part of him just wants to go outside and run, search the caves despite what Draco thinks. 'We just give up on them?'

He knows his tone is sharp, and there's judgement running through it. To his surprise, Draco doesn't snap back at him, instead he smiles, and there's something dark and satisfied about it.

'I have a better idea,' Draco says, and he holds out his hand. One of Harry's never-used spice jars flies towards him and he offers it across the table. Harry takes it, looking at the strands of silver hair shining within, just a hint of blood flecked across them.

'You didn't,' he breathes, looking across at Draco in admiration. His wolf echoes the sentiment and Harry feels the satisfaction of having a mate who is a strong hunter. He imagines for a moment what it would be like to be partnered with Draco, to have his incredible mind at his disposal on every case he worked. _No one_ Harry knows can think as fast or make connections as well as he's seen Draco do.

Draco's smile broadens. 'I think it's about time we had a look at how John Davies runs his operation,' he replies.

~

It's barely an hour later when they walk into the CTI complex that Davies worked in. Draco is Polyjuiced as him, having successfully argued that he has ten years more experience than Harry at living a double life. He's adapted one of Harry's Muggle suits to fit Davies' barrel-chested bulk. Harry walks closely behind him, invisibility cloak thrown over himself. He tries to ignore how strange it is to see the dead man walking again.

His wolf doesn't seem nearly as bothered by Draco wearing Davies' form as he had by Davies inhabiting it. It doesn't _smell_ like Davies, it smells like Draco and that is enough to keep his wolf happy. Strangely enough, he can still feel Davies' wolf inside the body Draco is now wearing, as though a ghost of it is stirring. It's unsettling and Harry tries not to think about it.

Watching Draco startle as the sounds and scents around him became so much stronger after he'd transitioned had been fun. Draco had twitched towards him, more than once, as though he wanted to breathe Harry in. Seeing that impulse on Davies' face gave him mixed emotions, though, so he'd stood back and watched as Draco got himself under control. It happened in an enviably short amount of time.

Draco greets the receptionist in the foyer of the CTI building by name and Harry marvels again at the incredible detail he's able to capture and store in his memory. As they take the lift up to Davies' level, Harry wonders absently if Draco was always this razor sharp, or whether it's something he's had to develop to be able to do what he does.

At the entrance to Davies' offices Draco pauses. Harry almost runs into the back of him as he looks to see what the issue is. There's an electronic access pad on the wall, the kind that requires a swipe card, which Draco most definitely does not possess.

Harry aims a quick _Alohomora_ at the mechanism from under his cloak, but nothing happens. He frowns, but Draco seems to take it in his stride, knocking on the door.

A minute later it opens and Harry recognises the receptionist they'd seen on their first visit.  
'Mr Davies,' he says, surprised.

'Joseph,' Draco says, 'Good morning.' He walks through the door and Harry follows closely behind him. Draco walks towards Davies' office, as though there's nothing unusual about him not having his access card.

That seems to be the right decision, as 'Joseph,' simply moves back to his desk and begins clicking away at his computer. Harry thinks about his own team, and how he'd never let them become so concerned about challenging him that they let someone walk into a building wearing his face.

Then they're in Davies' office and he focuses only on what they'd come there to do. Draco moves to the computer and starts it up, but it's password protected, and they don't want to risk tripping any security measures. Davies has only been dead for about twelve hours, and judging by the response from his receptionist, his death hasn't been reported yet. They don't want any permanent record of their activities.

Harry moves to the filing cabinets in the room, muttering ' _Inobservabilis_ ', to coat his hands in a much more effective form of Muggle rubber gloves. He hears Draco do the same, then he starts unlocking the cabinets one by one and sifting through their contents. 

'Duplicate everything,' Draco says, from where he's laying files out and copying their contents. 'I told you, we don't have time to filter it now. It's here or it's not.'

They move swiftly and the pile of files grows on the desk. Davies' office isn't visible from the entry way, but Harry keeps an eye on the door. He'll stun Joseph if he has to. It's fifteen minutes before they're done and Draco shrinks all of the duplicated files down, tucking them into his pocket.

They both look around the room, re-locking all of the cabinets and checking everything is as they left it, then Harry pulls the cloak around himself again.

In the entry foyer, Draco approaches Joseph's desk, leaning in as though to have a word with him. He flicks an ' _Obliviate_ ' from his wand that has Joseph going slack jawed and unfocused for a second and then they're out the door. Harry glances up to see security cameras on the ceiling, and he hopes there is no cause for anyone to search them.

He follows Draco to the street outside, then they're in a car and Draco is merging them smoothly into traffic. They park in one of Draco's garages after about fifteen minutes. As soon as they're out of the car he Apparates them away.

Harry is surprised to see, when they land, that they're back in Grimmauld Place. They hadn't discussed where they would spend the night, but Harry had assumed Draco would take them to another of his safe houses.

'What are we doing back here?' Harry asks.

Draco looks at him, Davies' face boring into his. 'Just give me five for the potion to wear off,' he says, eyes dropping to Harry's neck for a second before he wrenches them back up. 'Davies' damned wolf can't decide if he wants to fight you or fuck you.' Draco turns away, bringing his hands up to his temples as he hunches forward slightly.

'How the hell do you deal with this all of the time?' he asks, and Harry can hear an increased level of respect in his voice.

Harry shrugs, chucking his cloak over the back of a chair. 'Not much choice, I guess.'

Draco huffs out a laugh. 'I understand so much more about why so many weres go feral,' he says, and then he sighs with relief as his features begin to shift. Harry turns away so he doesn't have to watch Draco's body shrink and twist.

After a minute he hears Draco's voice as he reverses the Tailoring Charm, modifying the clothes again. Harry thinks for a moment about the fact that Draco is wearing his clothes. It sends a curl of heat through him, though when Draco speaks, his voice is all business.

'From what I saw, most of it is financial accounts. There are some transport manifests, customer contracts and the like sprinkled through it,' he says, as he walks towards Harry's kitchen, one bundle of the files resized and in his arms. Harry picks up the other two piles and follows Draco through.

'I think the best approach would be for both of us to look through everything,' Draco says, rolling up his sleeves as he takes a seat. Harry tries not to look at the way the lean muscles in his forearm flex. He wants to lick them.

'We need to lay out anything we think might be unusual, for any reason.' Draco looks over at Harry and the corner of his lips quirk into a smile. 'Even if it just smells off,' he says.

Harry glares at him, but there's no heat in it. It's strange, being teased gently like this, having what happened to him being made light of. Hermione is always making sure he's okay, and Ron doesn't like to mention it, but Draco seems perfectly comfortable with referencing the fact that he's a werewolf in casual conversation. Harry wants to dislike that, but there's something about it that's freeing, that makes a tension he didn't know he was carrying in himself relax.

'Good idea,' he says. He pulls a file to the table in front of him and flicks the cover open as he drops into a seat beside Draco. Draco looks faintly surprised by his choice of chair but he doesn't say anything, just reaches for a file of his own. Harry can smell the warm sweetness of his happiness and suddenly he wants to reach out and touch Draco, to remind himself how he felt, to see how his scent would change at an action like that.

Then he remembers the night before, in the caves, and he flushes and looks away, focusing on the file in front of him. It's a record of transport routes and frequencies for a brewery. None of the areas they service connect to Dover, and the frequency is far too high for this to be a file about the kidnappings. He casts his eyes over each of the pages regardless, before closing it again, setting it on the other side of the table for Draco and pulling another file off the pile.

They work that way together for the remainder of the day. Occasionally one of them will point something out to the other, but there's nothing conclusive, nothing that immediately screams success. At some point Draco gets up, stretching so that his joints crack. Harry gets lost, for a moment, in watching his body as he reaches upwards. When he glances up, Draco's eyes flick away from his and there's a faint tinge of red on his cheeks, as though he'd just caught Harry checking him out… and had liked it.

Harry reminds himself that it doesn't matter what Draco might think he wants… or what Harry wants. He's a danger to Draco and that's the end of it.

He keeps reading the files as Draco pulls together a plate of cheese toasties, making pointed remarks throughout the process about the pitiful state of Harry's pantry and the fact that an old pureblood estate should be kept in a condition to serve a dinner party for twenty at all times.

'You might be able to make twenty toasties,' Harry deadpans, keeping his eyes on the page in front of him. He hears Draco huff and he bites back his smile.

They work for another hour after they eat, then Draco folds the file in front of him with a decisive snap.

'We're done,' he says, placing it on the pile for Harry to check.

'We've barely looked at half of it,' Harry objects, reaching for the file. They've pulled together a page of notes between them about possible contacts and transport routes. It's nowhere near enough.

'We both almost died last night,' Draco says, slapping his hand away. 'We're done for today. We need to rest. _You_ need to give yourself ten minutes to think about what happened and how you feel about it all.'

Harry folds his arms across his chest and leans back in his chair, looking over at Draco. 'What's that supposed to mean?' he asks.

Draco just rolls his eyes and stands. 'You got anything decent to drink in this place?' he asks, moving towards Harry's pantry.

Harry holds out his hand and _Accio_ s a bottle of Ogden's finest to himself. Draco sighs, but collects two glasses.

'Let's go outside,' Draco says. 'I'm sick of this room. This place has a rooftop terrace, doesn't it?'

Harry looks at him, startled. 'How do you know that?'

Draco frowns. 'Do you pay attention to anything around you? There's a dirty great tapestry on the wall upstairs with my name stitched onto it.'

For a moment, Harry simply enjoys the fact that Draco is back to his normal level of scathing observation. He's been softer all day, as though he feels like Harry needs to be treated gently. He hasn't minded that, but there's something about Draco's Malfoy-voice that makes him feel even more comfortable than the softness had. He wonders what that says about him and decides not to examine it too closely.

He remembers seeing Draco's name on the Black family tree, and remembers his anger, years ago at thinking Malfoy had any connection to Sirius—the blood connection that Harry would have killed to have. Anything to feel less alone in the world.

'Yes, there's a rooftop terrace,' he says, after a beat. 'I haven't been up there in years though.' 

Draco doesn't respond, he just shifts the glasses so he can pluck the bottle of whisky off the table in front of Harry and heads out of the kitchen. Harry can hear him climbing the stairs. He looks back at the files in front of him and sighs, pushing to his feet to follow.

Draco has wrestled the door open and is on the roof by the time Harry makes his way up. The night is a mild one and Draco hasn't bothered to put a jacket on, the sleeves of his shirt still rolled up to his elbows. He walks to the very edge of the roof, placing the bottle and glasses on the ledge before him before climbing up on to it, sitting with his feet dangling over the side.

Harry wants to tell him he's being an idiot and it's a four storey drop, but Draco hasn't listened to him yet and he doubts that's about to change now. Instead he walks over and boosts himself up beside Draco, looking up at the sky.

The moon is still full and heavy and Harry can feel its satisfaction at his turn. It feels gentle, not punishing like it normally does when he takes suppressants and aborts a shift. It's nice to be outside, he thinks, nice to be under the light of the moon.

Beside him Draco pours them both a glass then holds his up expectantly. Harry picks his up and clinks them together. The moon is bright enough that, combined with the streetlights far below, he can see Draco clearly.

'To living,' Draco says, something unreadable in his eyes.

'To living,' Harry echoes and tilts his head back, letting the warm burn of the whisky flow down his throat.

Draco tops them both up immediately and Harry is surprised to see he's drained his as well. They have another two each in companionable silence and then Draco speaks, his voice soft as he looks out into the darkness. 

'You're the first person who's seen my real face in the last ten years. Did you know that?' He glances across at Harry as though checking his reaction, then looks back out into the night. Harry feels shock run through him at the words.

'Your the first person who's even come close to guessing. Five minutes in a room with you, and you know me.' He huffs a laugh, but it's more resigned than bitter. 'Only you, Potter.'

'What do you mean, the first person?' Harry asks, struggling to take that in. Surely not? He hasn't been hiding himself so absolutely this whole time, has he? 'What about your parents? Your friends?'

Draco snorts and this time it's a bitter sound. 'I told you. I want nothing to do with my father and my mother's never been able to keep a secret from him.'

Draco kicks his heels against the stone parapet they're sitting on. 'It's better they both think I'm dead. Easier.'

Harry looks at Draco and tries to imagine a world in which he'd think it was better his parents assumed he was dead. He can't. The loneliness of that thought tugs at something in him and he leans sideways slightly, bumping his shoulder against Draco's in a silent attempt to reassure him he's not alone. Draco leans into the contact, his arm warm through the thin cotton of his shirt. 

'Your friends?' Harry asks softly. He's almost afraid to ask, but there's something about the quietness of the night and the whisky burning through his body that makes him continue. 

'I was too dangerous to be around, when I first skipped bail,' Draco says, his voice detached. Matter of fact. 'I'd lost touch with them while I was in Azkaban anyway.'

He finishes his drink and then notices Harry's is empty and tops them both up. His fingers brush against Harry's as he hands him the glass and Harry can hear the stutter in his heartbeat as they do. _This is dangerous_ , he thinks. _We're both drinking too much, too quickly_. He doesn't move away.

'I kept tabs on them,' Draco says, as he looks up at the moon. He's settled in more closely to Harry now. Their thighs are pressed together and their arms brush against each other as they sip their drinks. Harry tries not to focus on the contact, but Draco smells so good and he's here, and he's safe and it could so easily have ended a different way. _And that would have been your fault,_ a voice inside him whispers accusingly. 

Harry knows. He knows that's true. He downs his whisky and shifts slightly away from Draco. 

'Greg married a Muggle after he got out of Azkaban,' Draco says, looking down at where their legs are no longer touching. It takes Harry a second to place himself back in the conversation. He immediately wants to feel Draco's warmth against himself again. 

'Pansy lives overseas, in Australia, of all places. As for Blaise and Theo,' he shrugs, 'at the start, I didn't want them to know how low I'd fallen. Then, after I'd come up with the concept of Veritas, I couldn't trust them with the secret.'

Draco takes a sip of his drink and turns to look at Harry. 

'Do you have any idea how strange it is to look in the mirror and see my own face every day?' his tone is light but his scent is layered with sadness and uncertainty. 

'You don't even wear your face when you're alone?' Harry asks, surprise jolting through him again. 

Draco smiles but it's a bleak one. 'I don't really want to be Draco Malfoy,' he says. Before Harry can respond to that—can even consider how to respond—Draco continues. 

'I don't want to be the full me, anyway. Every character I play is a part of me, in some way, a facet of my personality given life.' 

He sighs and finishes his drink. Harry's glad when he doesn't pour another. Draco is very fast approaching drunk. 

'The parts are okay,' Draco says, and Harry begins to wonder if this was all information he would be happy to have Harry know, in the morning.

'Being the whole thing is overwhelming,' Draco says. He turns so he's facing Harry, one leg up on the stone wall. 

'The way you look at me, it's very intense,' he says and Harry doesn't know how to respond to that. 

'You see me,' Draco says, and there's such an expression of yearning in his eyes that Harry doesn't move away when Draco places a gentle hand on his cheek. 

He feels Draco's thumb rub across his cheekbone and then Draco is leaning in and Harry is catching his breath and he can hear Draco's heart pounding, and his isn't far behind. 

When their lips touch, it's soft and slow and Draco's mouth is warm. Harry breathes in the smell of his skin, almost unconsciously. He feels the wolf press forward within him, rumbling in pleasure. 

Draco makes a contented noise and moves to deepen the kiss. It's this that shakes Harry out of his daze. He can't kiss Draco. He can't take whatever is happening between them any further. He's bad for Draco. He's dangerous. And that's the end of it. 

He pulls himself away, swinging his legs off the wall and spinning around. He ignores the way Draco's fingers trail across his skin, as though attempting to pull him back. He ignores the angry howl of protest from the wolf within him. He grits his teeth and forces it into submission. 

'I can't,' he says, into Draco's shocked face. The shock changes quickly to impassivity, though Draco's emotions are sharp in the air, painful. He needs to leave, Harry thinks, as he backs away. This is the right choice, he knows it is, but that doesn't mean he wants to be around the fallout. 

He strides over to the door and his hand is on the handle when Draco speaks. 

'Stop.'

Harry pauses, he can't help himself. He at least owes it to Draco to listen to what he has to say, doesn't he? But when Draco speaks, he takes a totally different approach, as though the kiss had never happened. 

'Teddy is the reason you hate them, isn't he?'

Harry sucks in a breath at the boy's name. An image of his face flashes across his mind for an instant. A happy smile, green eyes, just like his. He closes his eyes against the pain of it.

'You can't keep judging a whole race based on the actions of a few,' Draco says from behind him, voice soft, but implacable. 'It's killing you, the way you hate yourself.'

Harry feels the words as though they're cutting through him. Draco is wrong. Werewolves are monsters. All of them. Look at what Harry had tried to do to him the night before. He reaches for the door handle. He can't talk about this, can't try and make excuses for his own nature. The nature of a beast.

'What is it like, your connection to your wolf?' Draco asks, voice curious.

Harry freezes, hand on the handle. He looks back over his shoulder at Draco, surprised by the question. Draco's gaze is frank, but Harry knows there's likely more to what he's asking. He turns around, taking a few slow steps back towards Draco, wary, but feeling like he owes him this, somehow. He remembers Draco's words, earlier, laying himself bare.

'It's not _my_ wolf,' Harry says slowly, looking up at the moon. 'It's inside me, but it's not me. It feels like it's a totally different creature. This thing that was done to me, that's ruined my life.' His tone becomes bitter as he speaks, and he realises that he's thought these words a million times, but has never said them out loud. He hasn't wanted to bother anyone by adding his self-pity to their list of Harry-related things to worry about.

Draco makes a noncommittal noise and takes a sip of his whisky. 

'What was it like, last night?' Draco asks, and Harry can feel his eyes on him, though he doesn't turn his head to meet the gaze. 'When the wolf was in charge?'

Harry frowns, trying to cast his mind back. It's all fragments, snatches of thought and feeling, blurs of movement, consciousness and then fading.

'It was… as though I was drowning,' he says softly, feeling the truth of the words resonating in him. 'I kept fighting my way to the surface, but every time I got a gasp of air, he forced me back under.'

'You told the wolf to jump back so I could AK Davies,' Draco says, and it's a statement more than a question.

Harry remembers it, that desperate need to protect Draco, to find _anything_ he could to get the upper hand on the enormous silver wolf tearing into him. For a moment, they had been in sync. He had seen through the wolf's eyes, had felt their desire merge into one. A second later, the wolf had leapt and the connection had been gone. Harry had been pulled back under.

'It hates me,' he says, and closes the distance between them. He picks up the bottle, taking a swig directly from the neck. 'It wants to kill me.' He looks across at Draco to see him frowning. He seems to hesitate, as though trying to make up his mind about something, and then he speaks again.

'Do you think the wolf feels the same way?' he asks, and Harry doesn't understand what he's saying. His face must show it, because Draco keeps talking. 'Do you think he feels like he's drowning too? Like he's stuck inside you and all you want to do is rid yourself of him?'

Harry pauses with the bottle lifted halfway to his mouth. There's a surge of anger inside him, hot and bitter, and he _knows_. He knows with a sick sense of certainty that that is exactly how the wolf inside him feels every second of the day.

He feels the truth of it hit him like a punch in the gut. The wolf has lived three times, since Harry was bitten. He has had a choice about where he goes and what he does exactly three times in the last year. Every second of every other day, Harry has spent suppressing him, using his senses when he wants them, all the while despising them.

'He's you, you know,' Draco says, and it's soft, as though he understands some of what is going through Harry's mind. Harry doesn't respond, the shock of his self-realisation still surging through him.

'He's not a separate creature,' Draco continues. 'He's the part of all of us that we can't touch anymore, the most primal, instinct-driven part of us. That's what the lycanthropy virus does. It grows that part of the brain, strengthening the cells, bringing it to life. The wolf in you is who you would have been a million years ago.'

Harry drinks again from the bottle, heedless of the way the alcohol burns its way down his throat. Draco is wrong. Hermione's told him this a hundred times. She's wrong too. The wolf isn't him. The wolf is an animal. 

Wolves have taken everything from him.

That same anger simmers inside of him, filled with resentment and pain. All of a sudden Harry wants to throw up. He throws the bottle over the edge, hurling it into the night so that it smashes on the road far below.

He feels trapped in his own body, choices and truths swirling inside him. The wolf—the part of him that _is_ the wolf?—is growling steadily, as though confronting a threat. Harry tenses at the feeling of it. He wants to shove it down again. But he remembers the darkness, remembers losing all sense of who he was and where he was. He remembers the helplessness.

A moment later Draco is standing in front of him and he feels a hand on his neck, soft and warm, squeezing gently. He wants to push Draco away, to tell him they can't touch like this, not when they've kissed, not when he wants so much more, but he can't deny himself the comfort. He feels like he's flying to pieces.

'Breathe,' Draco says. 'Breathe, Harry. You're okay.'

Harry gasps in a breath and feels his lungs burning. He hangs his head down and Draco moves so that his side is pressed against Harry's and his arm is across his back, his hand keeping that steady pressure on his neck.

'You're still you,' Draco says, his voice low and calm in his ear. He can feel Draco's breath, warm on his cheek. Harry focuses on it, closing his eyes and trying to listen to the words.

'You're brave and strong and you have a ridiculously noble streak that makes you do the right thing even if it's going to get you killed. Your wolf is those things as well, if you let him be.'

Harry shakes his head. Draco is wrong, he has to be.

'It's a monster,' Harry whispers. He feels the rage inside him still, the ever-present need to hunt and fight and kill. He's seen so much blood and carnage and death. The wolves spread it everywhere they go.

Draco's hand doesn't let up, his thumb rubbing lightly along the edge of Harry's jaw, the very spot he'd rub against another wolf to scent mark them. It's soothing, to Harry and the wolf. He lets himself focus on it, breathing in the scent of Draco, warm and comforting. He smells faintly of Harry from wearing his clothes all day, and it's reassuring. It makes Draco feel like his.

'Davies' wolf was a monster,' Draco says, voice soft in the darkness, 'because Davies was a monster. It was just reflecting his deeper desires. From how powerful the wolf was, I'd say he'd been letting it out every month for a very long time, and probably spent most of the rest of the time drawing on it, and warping it to his will.'

Harry shakes his head, but Draco continues, not letting him object. 'Those wolves that took Teddy away from you, they must have been the same. Out of control, the people they belonged to unable to connect with them, or twisting them on purpose.'

Draco's other hand comes up so he's cupping Harry's face and he leans in so their foreheads are pressed softly together. 'It doesn't have to be like that,' he says gently and there's so much confidence in his voice that Harry feels the same confidence twining through him.

The wolf is still now, as though it's listening, waiting to see what he will do next. Harry can't reach out to it. Can't reassure it. He hates it. He doesn't want it. Everything in his life would be better without it.

 _Draco would be dead without it,_ a voice whispers in his mind, and Harry knows it's not the wolf, but it is the truth. Draco would have taken this case with or without Harry. Any other bodyguard would have been slaughtered by the rampaging silver wolf the night before.

Draco would have been dead before then, Harry realises. The wolf's senses had been the only thing that had let Harry catch the fact that they had an assassin in their apartment, and to get across the room fast enough to divert the blade.

The wolf gives him what he needs. The thought hits him like a blow and he recalls Draco's words about who he is as a person. _Your wolf is those things as well, if you let him be._

Despite the fact he's done everything he can to drive that part of him away, the wolf has always made itself available to him. It _thinks_ the same way as him. Protection. Pack. Loyalty. Honour. 

It _is_ him.

'Fuck,' Harry says, and it's almost a sob. He hunches forward slightly, wrapping his arms around his stomach as he squeezes his eyes closed. He feels Draco's other arm come around him as he's pulled into Draco's chest.

'It's okay,' Draco whispers into his hair. 'It's okay. I've got you.'

Harry leans into him with a whimper. Inside him, he feels his wolf do the same.


	10. Chapter 10

It takes them two days to figure out Davies' files. Two days in which Harry finds himself watching Draco's mouth, remembering the taste of him, the touch of his lips. He can't get Draco's words out of his head: _The wolf is you_. It's true. He knows it in a visceral sense. His wolf, the part of him that is the wolf, seems watchful, wary, as though he's waiting to see what Harry's next move will be.

Harry tries to focus on the case, on losing himself in the reams of paperwork. Anything to stop thinking about himself or about Draco. Neither thought path is leading him to any clarity. Every time he tries to think about being with Draco, or what he said, he feels a maelstrom of emotions churn to life inside him. What Draco is saying goes against almost fifteen years of fact he's had drilled into him, since the war ended and the werewolf population boomed. 

_Fifteen years of prejudice_ , whispers a voice inside him that sounds suspiciously like Draco's. _You can't keep judging a whole race based on the actions of a few_. He feels raw with the words. The pain of Teddy's loss is something he's had bound up inside himself for so long now. Letting go of his anger and his hate feels like letting go of a part of Teddy. And that realisation makes him feel sick and small, that his memories of Teddy are so bound up in hate. That isn't what remembering should be.

While Harry tries to figure out what the fuck he's going to do now, Draco figures out the final piece of the puzzle. They've both set aside things that seem slightly off, words that don't make sense in the context of the paperwork, transport routes that have extra stops once or twice a year, buyers that appear just as infrequently. But it's Draco who weaves the lot of it into the bigger picture. 

'There's an auction in four days,' he says, looking up from his pages of notes. 

Harry knows, as soon as he speaks, that Draco has done it. His voice is full of excitement, almost feverish with it. 

Harry glances up from where he's sitting on the other side of the table. He's been trying to keep his distance. It doesn't help in the slightest. He's dreamed of Draco the last two nights and woken sticky and frustrated, yearning for someone who's two doors down, but may as well be a world away. He _can't_. Right now Draco looks so damned _happy_ that Harry wants to push him against a wall and kiss him until he can't breathe.

'For Peony?' he asks, as though he can't smell Draco's triumph in the air. That had been their first clue to the anomaly. Flower shipments. They only happened once or twice a year and every time they did, the alternate locations and buyers matched up. It had to be the pattern, they had nothing else to go on. 

Draco nods, handing Harry one of the files. 'Look here: receipts for a gala event at an estate. There's something big like this a week after every flower drop. This has to be where they secure the buyer.'

Harry scans over it quickly and nods, excitement sparking in him, tempered by caution. They have to keep doing this right. They can't afford to fuck it up again. 'Say you're right; where is it?'

Draco moves a few files aside to uncover the map of England they'd spread across the table. There are transport routes and drop points marked all over it. He waves his wand and a new icon glows to life in half a dozen points as the auction sites materialise from his notes. 

'It looks like they use the same sites but randomise them,' Draco says, absently pushing a strand of hair behind his ear. Despite the gravity of the moment, and the success of the breakthrough, Harry can't help the way his eyes catch on Draco's movement. He wants to bury his nose in Draco's neck, until that's all he can smell and the rest of the world disappears. 

'We won't be able to guess which one, though,' Draco continues and Harry forces himself to focus. 'We won't have time. We need some way to make sure we have the right site before we go in.'

Harry looks down at the map again, mind racing as he considers and discards ideas. If he was still at the Ministry, he'd put surveillance on each of the sites and send someone in undercover to verify the child was present before they busted the whole thing open. He grits his teeth as he considers again how hamstrung they are, operating alone.

His eye snags on a discarded letter and he reaches over to pull it out from underneath a file. Harry looks at Ron's handwriting, at the note filled with worry, wondering if he was okay, where he had spent the moon, if he needed them.

Harry looks down at the letter and feels the entire plan click into place in his mind. He glances up at Draco and lets a smile spread across his face. His wolf approves of his hunting tactics and he feels his smile sharpen with that approval. Somehow, rather than putting him off, the wolf's endorsement makes him relax. His wolf—the part of him that is the wolf—lives for the hunt. It wouldn't steer him wrong.

Draco raises an eyebrow in question.

'We need to send an owl to Ron,' Harry says.

~

Ron's standing in Harry's kitchen in just under two hours. It would have been sooner, but it had taken Harry an hour to get Draco to agree that this was their only chance of success.

Draco's standing in the corner at the moment, Markwell's face on, with its characteristic sneer of disapproval in place. Ron's eyeing him suspiciously and Harry's wishing Draco could have chosen a persona that was a little less Draco-Malfoy-at-sixteen.

Harry gestures to them both to sit down. Ron sits, but the look he gives Harry is filled with worry. Harry knows his note the day before, stating he was fine, the moon had been fine, and that he would be home in another few weeks had probably done nothing to reassure anyone. The only other time he'd missed spending a full moon at the Burrow had been the night he'd let himself turn and had torn his house to pieces trying to escape the wards he'd made Ron set on the place.

His wolf doesn't hold it against Ron. His only reaction at seeing him is pure joy. Harry wouldn't have been able to stop himself embracing Ron if he'd wanted to. Ron is pack. Ron is his second. Ron is his best mate, and it has been far, far too long since they've been together.

Draco sits as well, after Harry sends him a pointed look. He makes a point of brushing the wrinkles from a very expensive-looking suit as he looks Ron up and down. Harry has no idea where he found it and frankly doesn't want to ask. Ron bristles slightly at the look. He's not in uniform. Clearly he'd been off duty, and is wearing a pair of joggers and one of his comfy old jumpers that Harry likes to steal occasionally when he's feeling lonely.

Harry wants to bang their heads together. He takes a deep breath instead.

'Ron, this is Darius Markwell,' he says, gesturing across the table at Draco. He wants to tell Ron exactly who Draco is, but they'd both agreed that would be far too risky, for Draco and for the case. 'He's the client I've been working for these past six weeks. Mr Markwell, this is Ron Weasley, Senior Auror with the Ministry of Magic.'

Ron nods at Draco. 'Pleased to meet you.'

Draco merely smiles slightly in response. Harry wants to kick him. But he knows it's perfectly in character for Markwell. He's just forgotten how much of a prat Markwell is… and how comfortable he's gotten with Draco that this behaviour seems totally out of character. It hits him again how much Draco really has changed, and how much Harry likes the person he's become now. But he can't let his mind wander down that path again. He needs to lay this out the right way.

'Mr Markwell has become aware that some of his associates have been involved in illegal actions,' Harry begins.

'They're child smugglers,' Draco says, leaning forward, as though engaged in the conversation for the first time. 'I have become privy to information that many of the people I had been looking to do business with, are instead in the business of buying and selling children. Squib children, to be precise.'

Ron looks at Harry, face incredulous. Harry merely nods and watches as Ron's expression changes, outrage and hatred flashing across it before he settles into cold anger. He looks back at Draco.

'Do I understand you're coming forward as an informant?' Ron asks, moving immediately into his Auror role in a way Harry makes Harry smile, reminding him of the way he'd seen Ron do it a thousand times before. Damn, but he misses working with him.

'Better,' Draco smiles, and there's a savage glee in his face. 'I'm your inside man.'

~

It takes them the best part of three days to set it up. 

Harry turned over all of their research to Ron. Every time they were questioned on it, Draco pointed to Harry as the person who'd brought it all together, who raided Davies, cracked the code, identified the locations. Harry wanted to argue, but he knows Draco will have a reason for it. He doesn't do anything without a reason. Harry can only hope it's a good one.

Draco is different while they're working with the Aurors. Grimmauld Place gets turned into an operations centre. Draco had made the very good point, which Harry had reluctantly agreed with, that the Ministry could be home to a connection to any point of the smuggling ring supply chain, and they couldn't take the chance of anyone being tipped off.

Instead Ron and Harry had conferred and Ron had commandeered seven people he trusted and put them on a 'regional' case, which basically just meant they all live at Grimmauld Place and Draco can't be anyone except Markwell. Not even for an instant.

Harry spends the time missing him like mad. He doesn't know when he became so dependent on Draco being around, on his snide comments, his soft looks when he thinks Harry isn't paying attention, his way of filling the room with his presence even when he isn't speaking.

Markwell is all sharp edges and disparaging remarks that have the Aurors just as willing to arrest him as listen to him. Harry wishes he could have a second with Draco, just a moment to tell him he understands. He gets that this is what coping looks like, he just wishes it didn't have to hurt so much.

He lies awake at night and concentrates until he can pick out the sound of Draco breathing as he sleeps. Only then, when he's sure his wolf will wake him if something changes, does he sleep. 

They station one Auror at each of the estates that have previously been used as auction sites. Ron argues vehemently against Harry going in alongside Markwell to whichever site is chosen on the day. Harry tells him flat out that is how it's happening or the whole thing is off. If he'd had hackles he would have raised them, and he welcomes his wolf to the forefront of his mind as he stares Ron down.

Ron watches the two of them more closely after that. Harry can feel Draco's judgement, but he's not sorry for it. Draco will enter that nest of vipers alone over his dead body.

Harry is full of nervous tension the day of the auction, pacing through his almost empty house. Ron has stationed Banks in the house for the duration—it's her job to coordinate the reports and ensure the plan unfolds the way it should. Harry wants to speak to Draco, but he'd gone to his room to dress for the auction and re-emerged only to move straight down into the room Banks has set as her command point. 

He's in there now, but Harry can hear that they're not talking. He knows he should be getting ready, knows he needs to dress and glamour as Hunter. The Patronus with the location could come at any minute. But he can't stop thinking about what could happen, how this all could go down. He's been in situations like this a hundred times before, but this is different. 

He knows Draco is the reason it's different, and it scares him how strong his feelings are. 

Harry hears a noise downstairs and forces himself to move. He picks up the suit Draco has laid out for him and walks out of his room. He feels slightly guilty as he enters Draco's room two doors down, but the feeling of discomfort is quickly overridden by the relief he gets from being surrounded by Draco's scent. He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes it in, letting it calm him, letting himself imagine Draco in here with him, arms around him, hands soft on him as he tells Harry it's going to be okay. He's going to come out of this safely.

Draco _has_ to come out of this safely. No other outcome can be considered.

Harry opens his eyes with a sigh and lays the suit on the bed, stripping his clothes off and leaving them piled on the floor. He hesitates a moment, when he's in his pants. He knows he's crossing all sorts of boundaries, but that doesn't stop him from moving to Draco's laundry basket and fishing out one of his undershirts. He brings it to his face and breathes it in, unable to stop the growl of approval at the overwhelming closeness of the scents of Draco's body. This is wrong. He knows it is, but he can't help himself. He needs the reassurance of Draco's scent on him. 

He resizes the shirt with a flick of his wand and pulls it over his head, running one hand over his ribs, letting himself imagine, just for an instant, that it's Draco's hand.

He's buckling up the belt on his trousers when the door opens and Draco walks in. Harry spins to face him, cursing himself. He'd been so lost in his head, he hadn't been paying attention to the sounds of the house. _More like your wolf doesn't see Draco as a threat to be tracked,_ a voice whispers inside him.

'Potter, what are you—' he pauses and Markwell's dark eyes drop to Harry's chest. 'Are you wearing my shirt?' For a second his glamour shifts and Harry sees Draco's face, heat rising in his eyes as he bites his lip. Then Markwell's image snaps into place again.

Harry freezes, embarrassment rushing through him at Draco's question. 'I—ah, that is, I thought it would be a good idea to—to, ah—' he scrambles as he tries to think of some plausible reason why he should be standing half-dressed in Draco's room and wearing his clothes.

Draco takes a step closer and Harry sees something rising in his eyes, the same look he'd had the night they'd kissed. He feels panic run through him. Draco can't be involved with him. He'll get hurt. It's too dangerous.

'Sorry,' Harry blurts, hands dropping to the hem of the shirt. He needs to remove it, and leave the room, and stop letting his instincts rule him.

Draco takes another step forward and puts a hand on Harry's. His touch is warm and Harry feels his whole focus narrow down to the contact between their skin.

'Don't,' Draco says, and his voice is low, Markwell's hardness gone from it. 'I like it.'

Harry's eyes jerk up to meet Draco's at those words and he feels heat rush through him. The voice in him that's telling him he can't and that this is wrong sounds further away, not as urgently pressing. He can see Draco's glamour flickering again, fading around the edges. Draco's fingers tighten on his hand and he's swaying forward. Harry licks his lips. He wants. He wants, so damned much.

A glowing blue form bursts into the room, swirling for a moment before facing them.

'The destination is Rothwell Estate,' Ron's voice says, issuing from the terrier in front of them. 'Apparition point is just outside the front gates. I'm bringing all Aurors into previously agreed covert positions. Signal remains as discussed. Ensure you have your coin with you.'

The terrier pauses and cocks his head. 'Good luck, Harry,' he says, then he fades away.

Draco steps back and Markwell's face is hard and proud again. Harry doesn't spare him a look; he can't. He pulls on the rest of the clothes and neatens himself in an instant. The door to the room opens again and Banks pokes her head in, glancing between the two of them before seeming to discard her questions as unimportant.

'You've received the message?' she asks. They both nod and she hands them each a golden Galleon, charmed to connect to the one that each of the Aurors already holds. 'Good luck,' she says.

Harry thanks her. Draco ignores her, and reaches for Harry's arm. 

'Glamour,' he says, and Harry puts Hunter's face on, wincing at the feeling of moving back into that form. Hunter doesn't feel right any more. He had been exactly who Harry had felt like a few months ago, but now he feels like an ill-fitting set of clothes, tight and pinching.

Draco looks him up and down for a second as though marking sure everything is in place, then he puts his hand into his waistcoat, where Harry knows he keeps his wand, and they whirl into Apparition.

They land inside the front gates of Rothwell Estate and Draco lets go of his arm immediately, smoothing his hands down the front of his suit with a faint look of distaste on his face. He glances around after a second, taking in the four men facing them with a look of bored superiority. 

Harry steps behind him a pace and scans their surrounds. They're on an expansive estate, manicured lawns stretching out towards the manor at the end of a long gravel driveway. It's approaching dusk, but he has no trouble picking out the details in the low light. He can hear faint music from within the house.

'Darius Markwell,' Draco says, stepping forward, and Harry returns his attention to the men in front of them. 'I'm here to purchase some Peonies.'

One of the men frowns, consulting a piece of parchment in his hand. 'I'm sorry, sir,' he says, 'how did you find this location? You're not on the list.'

Draco smiles and on Markwell's face, it's a vicious thing. 'My dear friend, John Davies, invited me. Of course, I hear he's not with us any longer, but I would be happy to take his place.'

The look on one of the men's faces sharpens and Harry knows he's been told about them. 'Excuse me a moment,' he says, 'I'll bring the master of the house to meet with you.' He Apparates away and Harry makes a mental note that the Anti-Apparition wards on the property are selective. That will make them easier to dismantle, if he needs to.

He eyes the remaining three, alert for any sort of threat and ready to pull Draco out if one of them so much as moves for his wand. But they're still, content to wait for further orders before acting. That fact puts Harry slightly at ease. Clearly the occupants of the party have heard of them, but perhaps their cover hasn't been blown.

A second later, there's a sharp crack and two men pop into existence in front of them.

Draco steps forward immediately, showing complete disregard for the way the four guards move, each dropping a hand to their wand.

'You must be Jasper Rothwell,' he says, extending a hand. 'Darius Markwell. I've been in business with Mr Davies, but upon his untimely demise, it seemed fortuitous to cut out the middle men, as it were, and come straight to the source.'

Rothwell takes Draco's hand and shakes it, considering him. He's a thin man, well-dressed and in his early forties by the look of him. His hair is combed back so hard that it looks glued to his head and the look on his face is calculating. Harry can't sense a direct threat in him, more the sort of a cunning caution that smaller predators have.

'Mr Davies spoke of you,' Rothwell says, and his voice has the precise, clipped accent of the aristocracy. Harry hates it. 'My man mentioned you were here to take his place tonight?'

Draco's smile sharpens as he brings his other hand up to clasp Rothwell's as well. 'Indeed. Terrible shame he met his end in such a gruesome fashion.'

Rothwell's eyes tighten and he gives a thin smile in response. 'Indeed.'

Harry knows the message has been heard and understood. Draco has just, through whatever supreme self-confidence he exudes, managed to both admit to Davies' murder, make it clear he was willing to visit the same on any others who got in his way, and offer himself to take Davies' place in the supply chain.

Harry feels pride and a buzz of ill-timed arousal flow through him. Damn, but Draco is magnificent. Harry's always had a bit of a thing for competency and Draco goes so far beyond competent that it runs through every part of him. He's a master and Harry suddenly wants him. He can't give this up, can't give _Draco_ up.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks as the realisation rips through him. _I'm in love with him._ He feels the rightness of that statement flow through every part of his body, the warmth of it followed almost instantly by a reality check. He can't be in love with Draco. He can't. There are so many reasons why that is the worst idea he's ever had.

 _Mate_ , his wolf rumbles inside him.

'As pleasant as this is,' Draco says, interrupting the spiralling panic of Harry's thoughts. 'Might we join the party? I would so hate to miss the main event.'

Rothwell considers him for a moment longer and Harry forces himself to focus on what's going on in front of him. His existential crisis can wait. He can practically see the thoughts and considerations running behind Rothwell's eyes. He needs to watch the man, to keep Draco safe. That's the only thing that matters. 

Finally Rothwell nods and smiles. 'Of course, Mr Markwell. We would welcome your presence tonight.' The tonight has a slight stress on it and Harry knows Draco hears it too. His eyes are colder when he looks at Rothwell. Rothwell merely gestures to the manor. 'I will see you inside.'

He Apparates back to the house, leaving Harry and Draco to walk up the long path. It's a deliberate slight and Draco lets them get a dozen paces up the path before he comments on it. 'Can you link us to their wards and get us into the same room Rothwell just entered?' he murmurs. Harry catches it from where he follows a pace behind and considers the request for a moment.

He stops walking and closes his eyes, feeling for the magic, mapping it out in his mind. The path from the gate to the room is strong. Most of the guests had Apparated through. Only a few, too new to the inner circle to be trusted, had been forced to walk like Muggles to the door.

It only takes him a second to weave their signatures into the magic. It's so used to being modified that it doesn't resist him. The security is shit for an operation like this and Harry is torn between wanting to improve it and being thankful that men like this tend to let their egos rule over their paranoia.

As soon as he's done he reaches for Draco's arm. A crack of movement and they blink into a huge, dimly lit room. It's lavishly appointed, all glittering gold, silk, and brocade. There are chaise lounges dotted throughout, a raised dais in one corner and a well-appointed bar in another. Harry glances around, senses on high alert for any immediate threat, but none of the room's occupants pay them any attention.

Only Rothwell looks over, surprise clear in his face. Draco gives him a smile that is positively predatory before he turns away, collecting a drink from the bar and beginning to circulate the room. Harry's surprised by how many faces he recognises from Draco's surveillance pictures and the Pensieve memories. There are seventeen men in the room, most accompanied by one or more bodyguards, observant, hulking presences trailing silently behind them.

He keeps his attention on Draco, watching the way he seeks out each of the men in turn, introducing himself, establishing himself, teasing out the connections each of them has to the night, whether they're here as buyers or suppliers. He shakes hands with each, getting close enough to place a tracking charm on them. 

Harry focuses on each of the people Draco greets, memorising their faces, dress, voices, mannerisms, ensuring he has a strong image he can provide at a hearing. He knows most of them are probably wearing glamours, but even a known alias can be valuable.

His other senses scan the room's occupants. He can smell two men he recognises from the tunnels, and when Draco takes a break to go to the bar for another glass of wine, he points them out. Those are the two Draco visits next.

'Good evening,' Draco says, and there is something very knowing in his voice. 'It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last. I believe we just missed each other, last time.'

The men exchange looks. One is sandy-haired, short and stocky. He's the one that smelled of wine and smoke and pain. The other is dark-haired, taller and older. He smelled of machines, oil and grease and the tang of salt water. Harry can still catch a whiff of it on him, faintly, even though he'd moved the child a week before. He wants to put his hands around each of their throats and demand to know how they could do what they did to children. He wants to rip them apart. He stays quiet and lets Draco speak.

'I truly am sorry for the loss of your colleague,' Draco says. 'My apologies for the mess.'

The sandy-haired man speaks. 'What do you think you're playing at?' His voice has none of the refined politeness of Rothwell's clipped tones. He looks angry, defensive.

Draco smiles. 'I'm not playing at anything, gentlemen. I assure you I am deadly serious. I approached Davies with a business proposition. He attempted to have me killed, twice. He discovered, to his detriment, that I am incredibly difficult to kill.'

Draco's smile widens until there is something of death written in it. Harry watches in satisfaction as the dark-haired man looks away.

'You will find my offer still stands,' Draco says, and his tone is light, as though he's discussing the weather. 'If you could pass it onto your Mother, I would be incredibly grateful.'

Harry catches the skip in both their heartbeats at the reference to Mother, and from the sandy-haired man, he gets the acrid scent of fear. He thinks, for a moment, Draco has gone too far, but then the man nods and mutters agreement under his breath.

Draco reaches out to clap them both on the shoulder, a hearty gesture of camaraderie that they both flinch away from. But it doesn't matter. He'll have placed the trackers.

They're at the party for almost two hours before the mood in the room shifts and changes. Harry picks up on it before Draco and steps forward to touch him lightly on the sleeve. They both turn to see Rothwell standing on the small raised dais in the corner.

'Good evening gentlemen,' he says with a thin smile and a clap of his hands. 'I know some of you have travelled far to be here tonight, so we will not keep you waiting any longer.' People shift in the room, finding seats and vantage points and Harry smells the sharpness of interest and anticipation in the air. He knows what's coming and it makes him sick to feel the reactions to it.

'As always, we will begin with some, shall we say, less-tantalising items.'

With that, Rothwell leaves the stage and a sombrely clad man steps up, a pedestal floating behind him. It settles beside him and he gestures at it. A thick, leather-bound book appears on it, and Harry can feel the evil emanating from it from where they stand in the middle of the room. The thing smells of death and the bidding begins almost immediately.

Draco, to Harry's surprise, bids strongly for the book, before bowing out close to the end, leaving it to be collected for a hundred thousand Galleons by a portly old man with a gleam of avarice in his eye that turns Harry's stomach.

The next item to appear is a necklace, rubies dripping from it like thick drops of blood. Draco shows no interest in that one, and the bidding closes relatively quickly.

And so it goes on. Harry watches the room more than he watches the items. Each of them smell of sadness, loss, pain and greed. He can see, as the night goes on, that the bidding, the cut and play of winners and losers is putting all of the men on edge. Each of them is powerful in their own right and losing things they desire to each other is working their emotions slowly higher.

Draco has spent about four hundred thousand Galleons, and has taken some of the most coveted items. More and more glances are turning to him and there is anger in the clench of fists and the hardening of eyes.

The mood in the room is getting uglier, and Harry can feel the way that turns to a sick, twisted arousal for some of the men bidding. He can smell the wrongness of it in the air.

He almost swears Rothwell can too, because it's as the mood is ready to break that he takes to the dais again.

'Thank you, gentlemen, for your participation tonight,' he says with a smile that shows too many teeth. 'To close the evening, we have a beautiful flower to show you. Our Peony is all the way from Wiltshire, gently raised and guaranteed not to be Traced.'

A door opens in the wall behind the dais and all of the men in the room lean forward as though unconsciously. 

Harry feels rage flare to life in him, bile chasing immediately after as a boy, who can be no older than eleven, steps through. He's barefoot and almost naked, clad only in a thick golden cloth that wraps around his hips and sways as he moves. 

The look on his face is serene, slightly vacant, and Harry realises with shock that he's either drugged or under an Imperius. His name is Oliver Sharpe. Harry recognises him from the recent missing person files Ron had brought around. He looks exactly the same as he had on the day he'd gone missing three weeks earlier, rosy-cheeked and healthy.

Harry wants to run up onto the dais, grab him and Apparate away. His whole body burns with the need to get this boy away from the eyes of the men watching him. Almost as though he senses it, Draco steps back slightly, his fingertips brushing against Harry's. It's the lightest touch, gone in an instant, but Harry can hear the message in it. _Wait. Just wait a little bit longer. We have to do this right._

He forces himself to hold his fury in close, feeling it churn on itself, growing within him. Just a few more minutes—long enough for them all to incriminate themselves—then they're done. They can save the boy and it will be over.

Harry takes a deep breath and watches the child as the auctioneer steps up beside him. 'I will open the bidding at three hundred thousand Galleons,' he says. There is a flurry of action in the room as bids are placed immediately, travelling higher and higher as the smell of lust in the room grows. 

Harry forces himself to breathe through it, forces himself to keep his eyes on the boy's face. He doesn't think Oliver can see him, doesn't think he can see anything right now, but he needs the child to know that he's not alone.

His hand is in his pocket, fist clenched around the coin Banks has given him. The second he's able to, he'll call the lot of them in to clear out this nest of filth and depravity.

The mood in the room is shifting again as bidders drop off one by one until it's only the portly old man who'd purchased the spell book in the beginning and Rothwell who are still bidding. Rothwell stands down at seven hundred and ninety thousand and the auctioneer looks around the room for a moment before declaring the old white beard the winner. He steps forward, and suddenly Harry can't do it anymore. He can't see that man touch the boy standing up there, so alone and vulnerable.

He thinks the words that will activate the coin and then pulls his wand, directing it at the wards, pulling at all the holes and weak points he'd noticed through the night. There is a stir around him as some of the bodyguards take note of his movement, but most of the 'guests' are still too busy simmering in their resentment.

Draco turns at Harry's movement and the look on his face is surprised for just an instant, before he pulls his wand as well and casts a sweeping Disillusionment Charm, which radiates out from the two of them. It hits the room at the same time as Harry tears the wards to pieces, and then the Aurors Apparate into view, sharp cracks filling the air as they immediately begin to fire Stunners into the crowd. 

Instantly there is chaos as people begin to run, fight back or Apparate from the room. Harry snarls at those who get away, and focuses his attention on throwing out as many Stunners as he can. He worries less about the bodyguards, focusing on getting the perpetrators into custody. He begins to push through the room, heading for Oliver, only to see Ron run for him, sweeping the boy into his arms before whirling into Apparition.

Harry heaves a sigh of relief and turns back to Draco who is casting with deadly efficiency, wand moving in a graceful blur. Harry pauses, just for a moment, caught by the beauty of his movement.

It's then that the assassin strikes.

Harry watches it like it's in slow-motion. The man behind Draco turns, and his face is nightmarishly familiar. Harry doesn't have a second to wonder why he's here or how he hid himself. Everything is moving too fast. It's the scene from their apartment weeks before repeating itself. Harry sees blue eyes alight with a cold triumph at being able to complete the mission this time, and then the knife swings through the air. He feels his earlier fury rise, a thousand times stronger. He roars out his protest, a scream of sound as he begins to move.

He can't lose Draco. _He won't_.

He and the wolf leap together, muscles bunching and surging as he closes the distance in a heartbeat. His wand is forgotten as he flies through the air, hands outstretched, fingers curled into claws. 

Draco's eyes widen slightly with surprise before Harry barrels into him, knocking him to the side as he reaches for the hand holding the blade. His momentum carries him and the assassin backwards and Harry uses the movement of his swing to keep the knife going, plunging it directly into the guts of the assassin as he hits the wall.

Harry holds him there, looking into his eyes as he reaches for the knife, pulling it out with a wrench and then stabbing it back into his body again. The man under his hands coughs a breath out at the impact, eyes widening in shock and pain. Harry grits his teeth and twists the blade before he rips it free and punches it home again.

He will not lose Draco.

He slams the blade home again and again, then turns, snarling as someone pulls at his arm. It's Draco and Harry pauses, heaving for breath, rage and panic still slicing through him. He lets go of the man and he slides down the wall in a bloody smear. As soon as he does, Draco pulls Harry to him and whirls them into Apparition.

When they land, Harry jerks him close, burying his nose in Draco's neck. He stays there for an instant before he pulls back, looking over Draco. He notes somewhere in the back of his mind that he's dropped his glamour as he moves frantic hands over Draco's body, checking for any sign of a wound, any sign of an injury.

'I'm okay,' Draco says softly, making no move to stop Harry's panicked checking. 'Harry, I'm fine. I promise. He didn't touch me.'

Draco raises a hand and runs it down the side of Harry's face, pushing some of his hair back. Harry shudders out a breath and tugs Draco close again. He needs to feel him. Needs the warmth of his body, the beat of his heart.

Draco wraps his arms around Harry's shoulders and Harry buries his nose in the warm skin of his neck. He breathes it in, rubbing his face against Draco, nuzzling in, unable to stop himself. He'd nearly lost him. Fuck, but he'd nearly lost him.

Draco's arms tighten and he presses closer. His scent begins to change and Harry can hear his heartbeat speed up. He tries to resist it, but he can't help but respond. He's tried so damned hard, for weeks now, but he wants this so much. Every part of him wants it.

He steps forward, arms tightening around Draco, holding him, moving him back a pace, two, until he hits the wall. It's only then that Harry registers they're in his room at Grimmauld Place, that this was where Draco had brought them. Then that doesn't matter as Draco arches against him, hands tangling in Harry's hair and pulling his head up. Harry drags his nose up the skin of Draco's neck, along his jawline, and then Draco's mouth is on his and it's hot and hungry and desperate. He kisses Harry like he'll die if he can't and there's something savage and possessive in it that has Harry's wolf howling in approval.

Draco bites Harry's lip to get him to open his mouth and at the touch of his tongue, it's like a dam has broken inside Harry. He feels weeks' worth of pent up wanting and longing and need flood over him. He kisses Draco back with a growl, shoving him against the wall, licking and biting his way into his mouth. Draco arches against him, moaning, and Harry can feel that he's getting hard. It sends his need spiralling higher and he reaches down, gripping Draco's arse and pulling them together.

He needs— He needs— He grinds against Draco and then growls with frustration, reaching down to lift him, hooking Draco's legs around him as he pushes him harder against the wall and thrusts against him. Draco gives a grunt of surprise but tightens his legs, pulling Harry hard against him.

He pulls his mouth away from Draco's and nudges his head out of the way so he can get to the tender skin of his neck. He sucks at it, hard, before biting down. Draco lets out a cry of pure want and arches against Harry, fingers tightening in his hair and pulling him closer.

Harry thrusts against him again, sucking another bruise into his neck, leaving behind a biting kiss. He growls in frustration as the collar of Draco's shirt gets in his way, and lifts a hand, easily holding Draco up with the other. He fumbles at the tie, trying to pull it free. He needs skin, needs Draco's body under his mouth, under his hands. He needs to be in him. He needs to sink himself inside Draco, to fill him up, to mark him up. He needs to keep Draco safe. Draco is his.

 _Mate_ , his wolf rumbles and Harry doesn't disagree. He can't. Draco is his.

Harry's movements are fast, jerky. He feels consumed by his want. He can't get his fingers to move right and he wishes he had claws, to be able to slice through the material to get to what he needs. Draco tugs at his hair again, pulling him into another kiss, a battle of teeth and tongues and moans and growls. He feels Draco's fingers moving deftly between them and then the tie is gone, pulled loose, and Harry brings his free hand back up.

He doesn't bother with the buttons, just rips the shirt open at the neck, hearing the ping as they pop free. He pushes the shirt aside, growling at the bunched up fabric of the suit jacket and waistcoat, but not willing to put Draco down long enough to undress him. 

Instead he scrapes his teeth along Draco's neck and down to his collarbone, rubbing his cheek against the skin there before sucking hard into it. He returns both hands to Draco's arse and cups it, kneading it as he ruts his cock against him. Draco's legs are tight around him and the feeling of it makes him want more. Harry breathes him in, deep gulping breaths, as he licks and sucks and bites. A cluster of angry red marks already litter his skin and Harry knows they'll bruise, but it's not enough. He needs more. He nearly fucking lost Draco.

They're both fully hard now and Harry can smell Draco's pre-come in the air. It's sharp and Harry wants to lick it into his mouth and rub it all over himself. He wants to be covered in Draco until they will never be able to get the smell of each other out of their skin.

A small part of him thinks he should be embarrassed about this, but the way Draco is writhing against him pushes that thought to the back of his mind. 

He grinds against Draco again, growling in frustration. He needs more than this. He needs to sink into the heat of him. Almost as though he's read Harry's mind, Draco pulls at his hair again.

'Down,' he says when Harry raises his head, bleary eyed, lost in the taste and scent and feel of him. 'Put me down,' Draco says and his voice is raw, wrecked. There's such naked wanting and longing in his eyes that Harry bends to take his mouth in another hard kiss. He thrusts up against Draco again, rutting against him, unable to help himself.

Draco pulls back with a groan of frustration. 'Harry, you need to put me the fuck down right now so I can get my pants off, or I swear to Merlin—' 

Harry forces himself to listen, forces himself to step back, just slightly, to let Draco slide to the floor. His hands move immediately to his belt buckle and he strips it free, pushing trousers and pants to the ground and kicking them off, along with his shoes.

Harry looks down and sees Draco's cock, hard and leaking, and he can't help himself. He drops to his knees and nuzzles against it, breathing in the musky scent of his skin and rubbing himself against the curly blond hair there. Draco smells so much stronger here, like the very essence of him is concentrated. It's intoxicating. 

He licks his way up Draco's cock with broad, wet strokes as Draco groans above him, a guttural sound. Draco's hands are back in his hair and he's pulling as he grinds himself against Harry's face in short little thrusts. Harry rumbles his approval as he rubs his face against Draco's cock, smearing pre-come on himself before sucking Draco down, taking him as deep as he can.

He pulls back and nuzzles against Draco again, at the intoxicating concentration of want and need in front of him. He nudges Draco's legs apart, then pushes one up over his shoulder as he pulls Draco's arse cheeks apart and licks first his balls, wet and sloppy before rubbing his face further back, licking over Draco's hole.

'Fucking, _fuck_ , Harry.' Draco shudders above him, gasping encouragement as Harry's fingers run over him. He tilts his hips forward, his other foot leaving the ground so that Harry's holding him up completely as he rubs and sucks and licks at him. Harry's never been so turned on in his life. He's leaking in his pants and the pressure of his cock being contained is painful, but he can't stop. Everything about Draco is so intense. So perfect.

All he can see, hear, feel, and taste is Draco. The scent of him is inside Harry and he doesn't think it will ever leave.

He needs more. He needs them to be joined. He needs to be in Draco and suddenly that fact that he's not is something he can't bear. He shifts Draco's leg off his shoulder, letting him back to the ground and stands, pulling at his trousers, needing them off. He whimpers as he struggles with the material, fingers bunching, tensing to rip it away.

'Hey,' Draco says, voice raw but gentle. 'You're okay. I've got you.' Draco's hands cover his, pushing them away gently as he works deftly at Harry's flies, pulling his trousers open and reaching inside to wrap a hot hand around Harry's cock. Harry cries out at the touch of him and bucks his hips forward. Draco pulls him into another kiss, and Harry spares the briefest through for the fact that he's covered in the scents and tastes of Draco and that Draco clearly has no issue with that.

As he thinks it, Draco breaks the kiss, rubbing his face against Harry's before pushing Harry's head back to his neck, the other side, which he hasn't marked yet. Draco's hands come back up to Harry's shoulders and Harry lifts him again.

Harry's trousers are still half-way down his legs and Draco's shed his jacket and waistcoat at some point and is clad only in his shirt, ripped down the front. Harry pulls back from the bruises he's sucking for just a moment to look at him. Draco's mouth is red and his cheeks are flushed, his pulse throbs in his neck and everything about him screams that he wants this, that he wants every part of Harry.

Harry feels something clench in his chest and he remembers his revelation earlier that night. _I love him_. Suddenly he can't wait anymore. He rubs his cock against Draco's arse and Draco arches into it.

'Please?' he says, voice rough, needing it, but needing to know Draco is ready. 'Please, Draco?'

Draco looks him in the eyes and his voice is clearly supposed to be demanding, but comes out as pleading as he speaks. 'If you don't get the fuck inside me right now, Harry Potter—'

His voice trails into a groan and his eyes close as Harry lines himself up and slides inside with one long, smooth thrust. He feels Draco's heat clench around him and leans forward, burying his face in Draco's neck with a sob. It's so intense. Everything about the feel of him, being joined with him. Suddenly it's all too much.

Draco's hand comes up to cup the back of Harry's neck and his voice is low and soft in his ear. 'It's okay,' he says. 'I've got you.'

'Nearly lost you,' Harry says, his mouth moving against Draco's skin. He licks again, a long, rasping stroke and then rubs his face back over the skin.

'Never,' Draco says, and his voice has a thousand emotions running through it. 'Never. You're mine now.'

Harry and the wolf hear that, and fierce, possessive joy runs through the both of them, to be claimed by this man.

Harry pulls back, leaning his forehead against Draco's as he looks into silver eyes blown wide by want.

'And you're mine,' he says and he knows both of them are saying so much more. Knows this is not just this moment. This is forever.

Draco tugs him into a kiss and Harry pulls out, before sinking himself back inside Draco with the same glorious tight slide. Draco gasps into his mouth and he cups Harry's face, deepening the kiss as Harry pulls back again. He snaps his hips forward, fucking into Draco, and getting that same gasp of sound from him. 

He pulls back and does the same thing again and again. Draco's hands tighten in his hair until he's pulling and he forces Harry's mouth back to his neck, arching into his bite with a moan. Harry holds him so tight as he fucks up into him that he knows Draco's hips will be ringed with fingerprint bruises tomorrow. The thought of that, of Draco being marked up and filled up and _his_ is almost enough to make him come.

He forces himself to hold off. He doesn't want this to be over. He wants to do this for the rest of his life. Neither of them can stop touching, tasting. Draco's hands are all over him, pulling at his clothes, scratching down his skin, urging him faster and harder. Harry shoves him against the wall with every thrust and his shirt is hanging off his shoulders now. Draco looks so absolutely, totally _debauched_ and Harry has never seen anything as hot as him in his life.

Then Draco wraps a hand around his own cock, pulling it hard and fast, smearing his thumb across the head of it as he gazes up at Harry with a look of pure want on his face. Harry can feel the way Draco's arse tightens at the pleasure of his own touch and he hisses in response, thrusting faster, chasing the end that he can feel coming. Draco keeps it up another minute and then he arches back with a cry as he begins to come, painting his own stomach. Harry wants to lean forward, wants Draco's come to be streaking _his_ stomach, but even when he's this is lost in what they're doing, he can't ask. It's not normal, what he wants.

Instead, Harry fucks him through his orgasm, grinding into him, and after a few moments Draco opens his eyes, panting hard. A smirk hovers over his lips, widening as he smears his thumb through the mess on his stomach. Harry feels something burn and twist inside him at the look in Draco's eyes. He looks positively devilish as he brings his thumb up and rubs it across Harry's lips.

Harry can taste the sharpness of Draco's release and the salty tang of it on the warmth of his skin makes him whimper. His hips jerk unconsciously and he sinks himself back into Draco's arse as he opens his mouth, sucking Draco's thumb hard, chasing the taste of him. Draco leads him forward until his thumb slides out and they're sharing a kiss that tastes of him. It's wet and filthy and Harry's never had anything as perfect as this moment.

Harry can feel his balls tightening, his release impossible to hold back with the taste of Draco in his mouth. But it's Draco's next move that destroys him. He can feel fingers pulling at the buttons of his shirt, tugging it off his shoulders, and then Draco's hands move between them and Harry feels the hot slide of wetness across his chest as Draco rubs the scent of himself into Harry's skin.

Harry closes his eyes and grips Draco's arse tighter as thrusts into it, whimpering with his need. He can feel his orgasm rising, smell the way Draco's scent is layered over his, claiming him. He thrusts forward once, twice more and then cries out as he begins to come, burying his face in Draco's neck, squeezing his eyes shut against the intensity of it.

'That's it,' Draco whispers against Harry's skin as he shudders through his release. 'That's it, love.'

Harry kisses and licks at Draco's neck as he thrusts slowly against him, riding out the aftermath of the most intense orgasm of his life.

 _Mate_ , his wolf rumbles happily.


	11. Chapter 11

Harry wants to shepherd Draco into bed once he finally recovers, letting Draco down to the floor and slipping out of him. Every part of his body is covered in Draco's scent and touch and he doesn't think he's ever felt this utterly _at peace_ before.

He looks at Draco, unbuttoning the cuffs of his ruined shirt and letting it fall to the ground. His neck and chest are ringed with a collar of angry red marks and already darkening bruises and Harry feels suddenly shy with it, with the magnitude of what they've just done, of what he feels.

Draco glances over at him and seems to sense some of what is swirling around inside him. He steps closer to Harry and cups his cheek, kissing him softly but firmly before drawing back and looking at him. Harry's pants are still halfway down his legs and his shirt is a mess.

'Would you like a hand with that?' Draco asks, arching an eyebrow but smiling to take the sting out of it.

Harry nods and feels himself flush. He feels so out of it, like every part of him has been taken and rearranged, made new under Draco's hands.

Draco drops to his knees and reaches for the laces of Harry's boots, tugging swiftly at them. The sight of him kneeling, naked, has Harry's cock twitching and Draco notices, looking up at him with a slow smirk.

'As much as I am absolutely _not_ averse to another go, I have a feeling Weasley and his friends will be back very soon and this probably isn't how you want them to find us.'

 _Us_. That's the only word Harry focuses on. Even the idea of being caught by Ron fades into the background before the thought that he and Draco are an 'us'—are together now. Harry feels happiness grow in his chest until he thinks he might choke with it.

Draco finishes the laces on Harry's other boot and taps his leg to get him to lift it. He pulls Harry's boots and trousers off, then stands again and tugs Harry's tie free before he slips his shirt off his shoulders.

When they're standing naked in front of each other, Draco's fingers drop to Harry's hip, tracing the scar tissue softly. Harry shivers under his touch. No one but him has touched the bite since the Healers first assessed it. He doesn't try and stop the gentle exploration. It feels nice to have this part of him known as well.

Then he hears a noise downstairs and glances at the floor. Draco catches the movement and sighs. 'I guess we'd better have a shower and get down there.'

Harry's wolf whines softly at the thought of their scents being washed off each other so quickly. He hesitates, knowing what he wants to ask, but also knowing it's not normal. Then he remembers Draco's thumb in his mouth, the streak of his come across Harry's skin, and he knows he can't keep trying to hide that side of himself.

He clears his throat, though he can't quite meet Draco's eyes as he speaks. 'Do—do you think I could just wipe us down?' he asks.

Draco doesn't respond and Harry feels a trickle of shame weave its way through him, but when he looks, Draco's eyes are hot with need again and before Harry can speak Draco closes the gap between them, pulling him into a deep, hard kiss as their bodies press together.

Harry responds to it immediately; he doesn't think he could ever not, now that he's had this. He runs his hands down Draco's body, glorying in the touch of his skin, rolling his hips slightly to press their soft lengths together. Draco groans slightly into his mouth and then breaks the kiss, pressing forward so his cheek is alongside Harry's.

'I'll let you in on a secret, Harry,' Draco says, voice hot in his ear. 'Possessiveness is a particular kink of mine. I think you're going to find there are very few things you want that I won't be willing to do.'

Harry feels the truth of that, the _possibilities_ of that, unspool inside him and he rolls his hips against Draco's again, feeling himself begin to thicken.

Draco groans again, his body tense as he seems to be wrestling with something, and then he speaks. 'Can you hear any of the others yet, or is it still just Banks?'

Harry concentrates for a moment, knowing what Draco is asking and totally on board with it. He can only hear one set of breaths downstairs and he shakes his head. Draco is moving before he's finished. He lets go of Harry, bends and reaches down for his waistcoat and fishes his wand out of it. He flicks Locking and Silencing Charms at Harry's door before directing his wand at himself. His posture relaxes slightly at his nonverbal spell.

Harry looks down, frowning in concern. 'Did I hurt you?' His wolf whines, pressing forward, wanting to comfort Draco.

Draco just laughs and the sound is both happy and filled with heat. 'No more than I wanted you to. And if we weren't about to go again, I'd have left it.'

Harry feels a surge of arousal at those words and he reaches for Draco, one hand sliding down his back to cup his arse, kneading it softly while the other runs over Draco's cock, still only semi-hard. Harry rubs it lightly, pulling and tugging gently as Draco looks at him, lip bitten between his teeth. Harry wants to swallow him down again. He leans forward instead, licking at Draco's lip before taking it between his own teeth and biting lightly.

The first time had been so rushed, so frantic and needy. Harry feels exactly the same heat growing in him now, but he doesn't have that same sense that he's spiralling out of control.

It seems Draco feels the same way. 'The bed, this time,' he says, 'not that I object in the slightest to being fucked against a wall.'

Harry just hears "bed." He picks Draco up and turns them, ignoring his laugh at the manhandling as he walks the few steps to his bed and lays Draco out on it. He takes just a moment to appreciate the sight of Draco's long, lean, muscled form stretched out on his bed before he covers him, rolling his hips again as their mouths meet.

They kiss and move against each other and Harry feels Draco harden against him. He slips a hand between them, gripping Draco's cock and letting him slowly fuck up into his hand. Draco groans into his mouth and runs his hands up Harry's back, kneading at the muscles as he does. He pushes his fingers through Harry's hair, tugging lightly. Harry feels his wolf rolling with delight at the touch and he smiles into Draco's kiss.

Draco must feel the movement. He opens his eyes and looks up at Harry. 'What's so funny?'

Harry rests on his elbows and looks at Draco, their noses nearly touching. Draco's eyes are beautiful up close, grey flecked with blue, like ice chips.

'My wolf,' he says. 'I think he's a bit in love with you.'

He doesn't realise until the words are out of his mouth exactly what he's just admitted to, but Draco's only response is a look of softness as he pulls Harry close again, kissing him deeply. Harry lets himself get lost in the taste of Draco and the touch of their bodies against each other. It's so easy, this dance, like they were made to do it together.

He has no idea how much time has passed before Draco's reaching for him, his hand slippery with lube as he lines Harry up against him. Harry slides home, groaning as he feels the slickness inside Draco that is his own come.

'Fuck,' he groans, kissing his way down Draco's neck. 'So good.'

Draco just pulls him back into another kiss as he tilts his hips, urging Harry on. Harry keeps it slow and deep, wanting to take his time, wanting to cover Draco and to feel every part of their bodies aligned.

But Draco tilts his hips again and squeezes just so and Harry swears at the perfect pressure of it, thrusting hard into him, the movement involuntary. The look on Draco's face is self-satisfied and Harry nips at his lip.

'Brat,' he mutters as he begins to speed up his thrusts, sliding home with a force that has Draco arching his neck and gasping in time with them.

'I've always been a brat, Potter,' he says, and his voice sounds wrecked. He looks up at Harry, eyes hooded so he's glancing through his lashes. 'Want to spank me for it?'

Harry whimpers at the surge of arousal that flows through him at that thought and he slides his hand under Draco's shoulders, gripping him by the back of the neck as he fucks into him, hard and fast. Slow be damned. He needs every bit of Draco right now.

Draco hisses in pleasure and arches into Harry, spreading his legs to take him deeper and urging him on with little panting half moans that drive him mad. He holds himself up with the arm under Draco and reaches between them with the other, wrapping his hand around Draco's cock again and giving him pressure to move within as he pushes himself down onto Harry's cock.

They move together, giving and taking in a furious rhythm and Harry can feel himself getting close to the edge again with a speed that surprises him, given how little time has passed since the first time, but from the noises Draco is making, he thinks he might almost be there too.

A thought comes into his mind, and it's filthy. He almost pushes it away before he remembers Draco's response to his request not to shower. He pulls back from the new marks he's sucking into Draco's neck to look at the desperation on his face and grinds hard into him, stilling there as he puts his mouth to Draco's ear.

'You said you'd probably do anything I asked,' he says, and he feels Draco shudder at his voice, low and filled with wanting.

Draco nods and turns his face to Harry's, kissing his cheek and nuzzling against his neck. 'Anything,' he says, voice raspy as he tilts his hips to Harry in a clear invitation to move.

Harry takes up his slow grind again. He thinks about what he wants. Thinks about saying it. Thinks about Draco beneath him, writhing under him, clearly lost in what they're doing. He closes his eyes and speaks again, feeling the wolf howl with approval within him.

'What if I wanted to fill you up?' Harry says and Draco groans underneath him, fingers digging into Harry's biceps where they're clenched around them.

'Fill you up and then plug you,' Harry continues, the thought of it sending heat racing through him. 'So you're full of me, and smell like me and everybody knows you're mine.'

'Fuck,' Draco says and his voice is shaky as he nudges Harry's face up to kiss him. 'Fuck, Harry. Do it.' Then he kisses Harry again and there's no finesse to it, just desperate need and teeth and tongues. Harry speeds up his movements, hips snapping forward into Draco as he squeezes his cock, rubbing his thumb over the head as Draco writhes underneath him.

Draco coming sets Harry off again, the combination of the smell of it, the splash of it on his skin, the sensation of Draco as he clenches around Harry's cock and the _sounds_ he makes, beautiful sounds of pure pleasure. Harry puts both hands on Draco's shoulders and fucks into him with furious speed before he stiffens and cries out as the rush of pleasure overwhelms him.

~

When they come downstairs only Banks and Ron are there. Ron stands, crossing the room to Harry and gripping him in a hard hug. 'Thank Merlin, you're alright. We saw the man you killed, and then you disappeared. I had no idea if you were hurt.' He glances at Banks and then back at Harry, and the look on his face turns knowing.

'Banks said she heard you come back, though, and that she thought you were okay.'

Harry looks at Banks, who won't meet his eyes, and he realises abruptly that there wouldn't have been Silencing Charms set over his room when they'd first arrived. Behind him he hears Draco let out a huff of laughter and he feels his own cheeks warm.

'Yes. Yep—ah. Just fine. Sorry to leave like that. How did everything go? Is Oliver okay?' Harry asks, both wanting to change the subject and genuinely needing to know what had happened.

'Oliver is fine,' Ron says, giving him a look that says he definitely knows Harry is changing the subject and they'll be having words about it later. 'He's at St Mungo's and his parents are there with him. He's being assessed at the moment. Still seems out of it, but the Healers aren't concerned that whatever he's on is dangerous.'

Harry feels something in himself relax in relief, and then the rest of the questions come. 'The team? The perps? How many did you bag?'

Ron grins at him and begins to report, laying out the facts of the case in exactly the same way he had back when they were partnered.

'Team is fine. Williams is in Mungo's for curse damage, but they're expecting a full recovery. Everyone else got off with a few bumps and bruises. We nabbed eleven of those in the room, including Rothwell. The others are being chased down, using the trackers Mr Markwell put on them,' Ron says, acknowledging Draco with a nod.

Draco nods back, but remains silent. Harry has an abrupt realisation that they've done it, the case is over. He feels an overwhelming sense of relief flow through him at this thought and he realises he hasn't stopped—hasn't taken a second to think about what all this means. He lets out a breath, feeling something tightly wound inside himself relax. 

He glances across at Draco with a smile, but instead of seeing his satisfaction reflected, it's Markwell's arrogant face looking back at him. Even in the face of this news, he shows no emotion. Harry looks at him and feels a niggle of worry worm its way into his mind. He wonders for the first time what the end of the case means for Draco—for them. He pushes it away. Surely after what they've just shared, Draco won't be going anywhere. Draco's scent is still all over him and he can smell his own layered over Draco from the other side of the room. He lets those things calm him.

'Let me know how the questioning goes,' Harry says. 'Especially whether you get any connection to whoever the head of the operation is. We still haven't got much further than the name Mother.'

'About that,' Ron says, then glances at Banks and Draco. 'Banks, can you cover comms for a bit?' Banks nods and Ron turns to Draco. 'Excuse me, Mr Markwell. Harry and I just need a quick chat.'

Harry looks at Ron, worried, but Ron merely smiles reassuringly and tilts his head, indicating the stairs in the passage. Harry glances at Draco. He looks unconcerned, but there's a slight tension to his stance and he doesn't smile as he inclines his head slightly.

Harry looks back at Ron, who's waiting in the doorway for him, and he can't think of a reason not to go. He can feel his wolf shifting restlessly within him and his instincts are very clearly telling him that he should stay with Draco, that so newly mated he should be with him, to watch over him and protect him. He reminds himself that Draco is more than capable of protecting himself and he doesn't need Harry for that in the slightest. He gives Draco a small smile and follows Ron out the door and up the stairs.

Ron leads him into the room he and Hermione used to use when they stayed here. They haven't been over nearly as much since Rose. He tends to go to them, when he wants the comfort of their presence.

When they're inside, Ron shuts the door and sits on the bed. 'Sorry for the secrecy,' he says, at Harry's pointed look. 'Just didn't really want Banks to be across this, and that Markwell bloke still just gets up my nose.'

Harry feels something stir in him, wanting to leap to Draco's defence. It's a mixture of himself and the wolf and they both want to growl, but he knows Ron is right. The persona Draco is playing is a right arsehole. He spends just a second wishing things could be different and that Draco could be himself around Ron.

'What's up?' Harry asks instead, pushing away those thoughts. It's no good thinking them when nothing will come of them.

'What you said,' Ron says, 'About doing the interrogations. As soon as we have the last of them rounded up, I want to go and see Robards and the Minister.'

'Why?' Harry asks, a cautious optimism rising in him. He ignores it. He can't afford to hope.

'This case,' Ron says, waving his hand as though indicating the last few weeks. 'What you've done with it, completely outside the Ministry, is phenomenal. I want to turn the lot over to them and bring you back in as Senior Auror.'

Harry shakes his head immediately. He can't afford to hope. 'No way,' he says. 'They kicked me out. They don't want me.'

Ron looks up at him and his face is serious. 'Harry, they won't have a choice. Once this hits the media and once we track down and recover the rest of those kids, this is going to be the biggest case since the Purge. When you're listed front and centre as the one who pulled the whole thing together and saved the kids, the public will be screaming for you to come back.'

An excited light is in Ron's face and happiness is in every line of his body. Harry hears his words and as they slot into place in his mind, he realises Ron's right. The path is clear for him to walk straight back into his old position. Robards won't be able to say no to him, not off the back of this case.

He lets a grin steal across his face and Ron's answering one stretches wider. Then he realises with a jolt that this is all Draco. _This_ is what Draco was planning for in setting Harry up as the lead on the case, as the one who'd pulled all the information together, made all the key connections. 

'Fuck,' Harry breathes as that fact hits him, overwhelming him. Draco has completely removed his own role—his own centrality—in favour of giving Harry the thing he's missing most. Harry feels another jolt of understanding, as he realises that in some ways, this is what it's always like for Draco, living his life in the shadows, never known, never taking credit for what he's done. He thinks, not for the first time, about what a lonely, cold life that must be, and he wants to run back downstairs and pull Draco to himself, tell him he's not alone.

'I know,' Ron says, completely misunderstanding his shock. 'Bloody brilliant, isn't it. That's why I want to go see them. Lay the whole thing out before it gets to the papers. We can say you've been undercover for the last year, working this case. It will give you an easy way back in, no egg on anyone's face. What do you reckon?'

Harry tries to think through Ron's words, mind reeling. Six weeks ago he would have jumped on any opportunity, no matter how small, that offered him a way back into his job—the job that was basically his life. Now, he's excited, he can't deny that, but it's tempered by caution, and a steadily growing worry that in taking what he had, he might be losing something even more important.

Ron is looking at him with that same earnest expression, and Harry pushes away the other thoughts. He's wrong. What's between him and Draco might be new, but it's strong. Harry knows it is.

'That sounds brilliant,' Harry says, and he lets himself feel the happiness and the satisfaction that the thought of returning to his role and working side by side with Ron again brings him.

Ron stands from the bed and crosses the room to him, pulling him into a hug. Harry returns it, overwhelmed at the way everything is coming together. Everything is working out in a way he never could have dreamed of a few short weeks ago.

 _And it's all because of Draco,_ a voice whispers in his mind. And Harry knows, unreservedly, that it's the truth. He lets go of Ron and indicates the door with a nudge of his head, wanting to go back downstairs, to be in Draco's presence, even if he can't touch him. 

Ron crosses to the door, but instead of opening it, he leans against it. 'Not so fast,' he says, his grin morphing into something a little more knowing. 'What's the story with you and Markwell? I've been watching the two of you, and Banks indicated that from the banging going on upstairs, whatever you two were doing when you got back it most likely started with "f".'

Harry glances at the floor, thinking about the room two stories below, where he can hear Draco walking around.

'Is it serious?' Ron asks, and the levity slides from his face as Harry doesn't immediately give him some flippant remark. He straightens slightly, not leaning on the door anymore.

Harry takes a deep breath and nods. He can't tell Ron everything, but he won't hide what Draco is to him. 'Very,' he says, and he can feel the raw newness in the word.

He knows Ron can hear it as well. He seems to hesitate, as though wrestling with something. 'You're sure? You've only known him a short amount of time, and we all know what it's like, the proximity of working a case together, the pressure of being around each other all the time. I mean, the guy… well he doesn't really seem your type,' Ron says, an apologetic but firm look on his face.

Harry smiles, unable to help himself, as he thinks of Draco and just how perfectly Harry's type he is. He moves closer to the door.

'He's a very different person, when you get to know him,' he says, and reaches past Ron for the handle.

~

The rest of the night is a blur of Apparition in and out of the operations room downstairs as various Aurors check in with status reports, holding cell updates, and damage control requests.

Ron is at the Ministry; he's called Robards in from bed and is working with him on coordinating the case management so it can be brought under official Ministry control. Harry shadows Banks, Ron having made it clear before he left that Harry was to be fully informed of all developments. He can't deny the way it thrills through his blood, being in the thick of things again. The room is a hive of activity and he feels alive with it, drugged with it. It's glorious.

At some point Draco leaves the room and heads back upstairs. Harry catches sight of the movement and turns, gesturing to the group he'd been outlining association connections to that he needs a moment. Draco shakes his head though, tilting his head at the glowing _Tempus_ on the wall that reads two am. Harry takes a step forward, but Draco shakes his head again in a clear indication Harry should stay where he is. Harry frowns as he watches Draco leave the room but then Banks asks him a question and he turns his attention back to the list of names in front of him.

It's about ten minutes later that he hears the shower start in the bathroom two floors above them. He looks up at the ceiling for a moment, feeling that same niggle of worry working its way through him. He tries to push it down. Draco's taking a shower. That's fine. It's been a massive day and he's taking a shower before bed. It doesn't mean anything more than that.

But he can't help but listen out for the sounds of Draco moving around upstairs, getting ready for bed. A part of him—a very large part of him—wants to be up there beside Draco, wrapped around him, holding him close. He lets himself think for a moment about that night in the cottage, when he'd had just that, only he'd been too delirious to remember it. He lets himself imagine going up there tonight, crawling in beside Draco. But he knows it's a fantasy. Draco's persona of Markwell isn't the type to be with Harry Potter and now that everyone's back, Harry can't see him letting it slip again.

It's another few hours before Banks turns in and forces Harry to as well. Gordyn turns up, with a report that they've recovered two more of the children. He's another of the team Harry used to run, and Harry makes himself let go. He knows he can trust Gordyn to keep things moving.

He makes his way upstairs, exhaustion pulling at him. He wants to collapse in bed, but he pauses outside Draco's door, putting his hand to the faded wood. More than sleep, he wants to push it open, shed his clothes and slip in beside Draco, bury his face in Draco's neck and breathe him in. He listens to Draco's breathing, soft and slow, and wonders if he spent any time lying awake in the darkness, thinking about Harry's absence from his bed.

There's a sound downstairs, like someone is coming up for the bathroom and Harry forces himself to move. He lets his hand slip from the door and turns away, giving silent apology to his wolf's pleas to stay.

~

Ron wakes him the next morning, banging on his door. Harry sits up and focuses automatically until he can hear that Draco is still sleeping two rooms over. Then he rubs his eyes and pushes the covers off with a groan as he stumbles towards the door, wincing at the way his hip has seized as he slept.

'You look like shit,' Ron says in greeting as he hands Harry a cup of tea. 'Put some clothes on and come downstairs. You have an appointment with the Minister in an hour.'

Harry feels Ron's words cut through the lingering fog of sleep and he runs a hand through his hair. 'They agreed?'

'They certainly didn't say no,' Ron says, and his smile is broad. 'But they want to see you in person. So get your arse downstairs.' He steps back with those words and pulls Harry's door closed.

Harry sips his tea before putting it on his dresser and collecting a clean set of clothes. A part of him doesn't want to shower. Even after the wipe down and a night of sleep without Draco beside him, all he can smell is Draco and he loves it. But he knows he needs to. He sighs and is about to collect a towel when he thinks more fully about what's about to happen.

If all goes to plan, he'll be getting his job back in about an hour. He wants Draco there, he realises, certainty running through him at that thought. None of this would be possible without Draco. He should be there.

He wraps a towel around his waist and leaves his room, walking down the hallway to knock on Draco's door. He can feel the wards on the room, and knows they will alert Draco to his presence if he doesn't wake to the knock.

After a few moments he hears movement inside, feet hitting the floor and the rustle of clothes, and then the door handle twists and Draco is standing in front of him, Markwell's face and a perfectly pressed suit in place.

Draco opens his mouth to make an undoubtedly cutting remark, but then he takes in Harry's appearance, naked except for the towel slung low around his hips. His eyes flick over Harry's body in a quick appraisal which he can't hide. 

Harry runs a hand through his hair in a movement that he knows will show off his abs and arms and he has to stop himself from smiling as Draco's gaze tracks the movement. He feels a little of his worry settle at the obvious interest. Draco still wants him. Even in this form. They'll figure out a way to make it work.

'Why did you wake me?' Draco asks, and his expression is all business as he meets Harry's gaze, eyes resolutely fixed on his.

Harry sighs inwardly, but he knows how to play the game. 'I'm meeting with the Minister and the Head Auror in an hour,' he says, knowing Draco will understand the reasons behind that. 'I want you to come with me.'

Markwell's eyes widen slightly in the only surprise Harry knows he will get from him and he waits until Draco nods.

'I'll be in the kitchen when it's time to leave,' Draco says, then he steps back into his room. Before the door closes, his eyes rake back down Harry's body and Harry sees him lift a hand to his neck, as though rubbing at a bruise under the glamour.

Despite wanting to see Draco's face so badly it hurts, Harry's smiling as he heads for the shower.

~ 

Draco is indeed downstairs when Harry heads down and there's a plate from the communal cook-up sitting next to him on the bench. Harry glances around to see most of the food is gone. Draco makes no acknowledgement that he saved it for Harry, instead sniffing disdainfully at the mound of food, but Harry makes sure to brush against him lightly as he reaches for the plate. Draco stiffens but doesn't pull away.

 _Hunt?_ his wolf asks, seemingly interested by the prospect of stalking Draco all over again.

 _Maybe_ , Harry tells him, sitting at the table so he can watch Draco as he eats, making it clear he is very aware of the avoidance tactics happening and will be having none of it.

Ron joins them a minute later, sitting heavily into a seat beside Harry, cup of coffee in hand. He nods at Draco but turns his attention to Harry.

'Have you heard the latest?' he asks, as he reaches for a piece of toast. Harry wants to growl at him. This is food his mate provided for him. Instead he reminds his wolf that Ron is their second and that Harry's food is pack food. The wolf subsides with a discontented snap of his jaws.

Harry shakes his head in response to Ron's question. He's been out of the loop for about six hours.

'We have five kids at St Mungo's now, including Oliver, and we think we're close to recovering another two.'

Harry puts his fork down, feeling a swirl of emotions run through him. Relief, pride, guilt, fear.  
'That's brilliant,' he says, forcing himself to focus on the positives. The kids are back. It should have happened years ago, for some of them, but they're back now.

'Can we go see them?' Harry asks.

Ron shakes his head immediately. 'Healers have orders for no contact outside basic medical personnel and family. When the kids show signs of being ready, we'll send in Cynthia Langley, down in Children's Services, but now they're just hoping they can get them to a place where they will start to feel safe.'

Harry feels disappointment run through him. He holds a strange sort of connection to many of the children. He's poured over their files so many times over the years. And he can feel Oliver's eyes sitting in the back of his mind, that vacant look and Harry's desperate need for him not to feel alone. 

There's no way he'll push it though. He's not what those kids need. Safety and comfort and reassurance and some way to begin to understand what they've been through is far more important.

He nods his agreement and finishes off his breakfast quickly as he tries to put it from his mind.

They Floo to the Ministry. Ron's had Harry's staff connection reactivated, so they come out in the Auror offices. It's so much like old times it hurts, and Harry has to focus on keeping his breathing slow and even. He has so much riding on the outcome of this meeting. He's so close to getting his life back and the idea that it might be snatched away at this final stage is enough to send his thoughts racing in anxious spirals.

He looks over as Draco steps up beside him, looking around the Auror office as though he's been there before and is even less impressed this time. But the contemptuous look on Draco's face is belied by the soft reassurance Harry feels coming from him. Draco's comforting him in the only way he can right now and Harry feels that comfort settle over him. He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders.

The three of them make their way up to the Minister's office and as they enter Kingsley steps forward to greet Harry, shaking his hand without hesitation as he looks him in the eye.

'Well done, Harry,' he says. 'Amazing work.'

'Thank you, sir,' Harry says, feeling the spark of his hope catch alight.

Robards reaches out to shake his hand as well, with a gruff word of thanks. He smells slightly uncomfortable, but it's to his credit that he doesn't show it externally. Harry wonders what it's taken for Robards to get to a place where he can shake the hand of the same type of creature who killed his wife. He wonders if Robards has come to the same realisation about how damaging it is to blame a whole race for the actions of individuals.

'This is Darius Markwell,' Harry says, shrugging off the introspection and stepping back, gesturing Draco forward to greet them both. 'He brought the case to my attention and was integral in making the connections that led to the op last night.'

'Thank you, Mr Markwell,' Kingsley says. 'Senior Auror Weasley has told us all about your involvement. We appreciate your service, more than you know.'

For a moment, Harry is worried Draco won't shake his hand. He knows there has been absolutely no mellowing in his attitude towards the Ministry and the morals of almost everyone who works here. But there is no hesitation as Draco reaches forward for the handshake with a respectful dip of his head. Markwell must not hold the same prejudices, Harry realises, a thought that holds a hint of bitterness.

But then introductions are done and the Minister waves them all into seats.

'I won't beat around the bush,' he says, giving Harry a smile that reminds him just how long he's known Kingsley and how well the man knows him.

'In light of your recent accomplishments, it is transparently clear that the decision to request your resignation in light of your… affliction was a poor one. Head Auror Robards and I would like to ask you to consider returning to your former position.'

Harry feels excitement swell inside him and he glances at Robards to check his reaction. Robards doesn't smell happy or even particularly positive, but he does give Harry a nod of agreement and his eyes are clear as they meet Harry's.

'Will the fact that I'm a werewolf become common knowledge?' Harry asks, not sure what he wants the answer to be.

'No,' Robards says immediately. 'We think it would be best for you and those around you if that information remains confidential. It will cause the least disruption to the team and to any personal biases people might hold.'

Harry feels his wolf growl softly at the words and the sentiment behind them. He's being asked to keep hiding what he is— _who_ he is—so that he doesn't upset or offend other people. Even a few weeks ago, he would have jumped at that as the perfect solution. Now it makes him uncomfortable, and his wolf whines at the idea that Harry should feel ashamed of him.

He glances at Ron, who shrugs slightly, letting Harry know this was probably the best he could expect, but leaving the decision totally in his hands. He glances at Draco on his other side, willing him to let go of Markwell, to stop hiding for just a second.

Draco meets his eyes for a long moment and Harry can see the consideration of the pros and cons flashing through his mind. Finally he nods. It's an infinitesimal thing, a barely there inclination, but it's enough.

He will keep hiding. At least he'll be doing what he loves. At least he'll be able to help people again.

Harry turns back to Kingsley and Robards. 'I'd be very pleased to accept,' he says. 'Thank you for the offer.'

Kingsley smiles and reaches forward to shake Harry's hand again. 'Excellent. That's excellent.'

Robards nods and reaches to shake hands with Harry as well. 'Welcome back,' he says. 'I assume you can start immediately? We have a whole holding block full of people who were picked up from your op. Place is bursting.'

Harry glances at Draco again, something connecting in his mind. He has his job back. He has his power back. He's never been in a better place to help people. For a short time, while the child trafficking case sits on top of his fame as Harry Potter, he'll be untouchable.

'Of course,' he says, and they all stand, Robards leading the way to the door.

He focuses his attention on Draco. Legilimency has never come easily to him. He hates the feeling of reaching for someone else's mind. He spent enough of his life with someone else in his mind. But with Draco it's easy. 

Harry locates the brightness of his thoughts, flicking and sparking. He thinks about Draco's words the night before: _You're mine now_ and he hopes Draco means it enough to live it. He hangs everything he has on that hope and a gentle push is all that it takes to send his message forward.

 _Trust me?_ Harry asks.

Draco's step falters and his eyes flick to Harry, Markwell's face impassive. He considers Harry for a very long moment and Harry can practically see the thoughts racing behind his eyes. Finally, after what feels like an age, Draco inclines his head slightly.

Harry feels a mix of joy and fear rise in him in equal measure, but he knows this needs to be done.

'In light of my reinstatement as Senior Auror,' he says, and the three other men in the room stop, turning their attention to him. 'I would like to close a long-unsolved case.' Harry feels Draco tense beside him and he shifts his weight so he's standing closer, side by side with Draco. He brushes his fingertips across Draco's for just a moment, an unspoken message of support. _You're mine_.

He hears Draco take a shaky breath behind him and when no objection comes, he continues. 

'The man I have worked with to solve this case over the past six weeks has been forced to hide his identity,' Harry says and he sees Ron, Robards, and Kingsley all turn their attention to Draco. He moves slightly so that he's in front of Draco, just enough to make it clear whose side he's on.

'Without him,' Harry continues, 'I wouldn't have even been aware of this case. Some of these files sat on my desk for years, unsolved.' He can hear the bitterness and regret in his voice and he knows that will never go away. If he thinks about what those children faced during that time, he might go mad with it.

'He found me and brought me in to something he had already recognised as wrong and was actively working to prevent. He's done this, despite having a black mark in his past. He's made a better life for himself—made himself a better man—but he still has to hide from the Ministry and from the rest of society.' Harry looks at the three of them. They're listening. But he needs more. He needs certainty.

'He skipped parole a little over ten years ago,' Harry says, and he sees something flicker in Ron's eyes as his gaze sharpens on Draco. 'Because he was threatened with rape by an Auror. Since then, he's lived in the shadows of society. Until now, when he's come forward to do the right thing.' Harry hears Draco let out a small breath and he knows it's because he hasn't mentioned Veritas. Just the thought that Draco had assumed he might is enough to make Harry realise the magnitude of the trust Draco's placing in him. Harry knows he would choose Azkaban over exposure in a heartbeat.

Harry firms his voice. 'I trust him implicitly and I want you to trust my judgement in asking this.' He knows his face and his voice are hard and his certainty is written all over him. 'Do I have the word of each of you that if he reveals his identity, he will not be detained or harmed, and instead will be commended for his role in this case?'

Ron nods without taking his eyes off Draco, but Robards and Kingsley exchange glances. Robards opens his mouth to speak but Harry overrides him. 'Your word,' he says, voice hard, 'or the two of us walk out of here and when this case explodes, I can guarantee the story in the papers won't be one you want told.'

The silence stretches and then Kingsley nods, followed by Robards, with a frustrated huff.

Harry turns slightly, so he's facing Draco. Markwell's dark eyes meet his, but the look in them is all Draco.

'Will you drop your glamour?' Harry asks.

Draco takes one last look at the three men facing him and then he reaches slowly into his waistcoat and withdraws his wand. He holds it lightly, but it's clear he's ready to use it. Robards tenses at the gesture, but Harry sees Ron step up beside him. The look he gives Harry is a mixture of trepidation and resignation.

Harry's watching the three of them when Draco lets Markwell's face fade away. Kingsley looks surprised, and then thoughtful. Robards takes a step forward and makes a gesture as though he's reaching for his wand. Ron places a hand on his arm and Harry has never been so pleased in his life that Ron can read him as well as he does.

Kingsley turns to Robards, cautioning him, and Ron looks between Harry and Draco, before huffing out a sigh.

'Of course it's Malfoy.'

~

Draco's wearing his glamour again when they return to Grimmauld Place. They'd agreed it would be best if his return to society could be managed alongside the press announcements about the case, to give it the best possible spin. Harry has assurances from Robards that they will have copies of an official clearing of Draco's record by the end of the week. He knows Robards isn't happy with him throwing his weight around, and it's insane to ask for someone's name to be cleared based on an Auror asking for trust, but fuck it. He's Harry Potter and if he can't use that just once in his life, what's the point of it?

Draco goes straight up to his room when they arrive and Harry smiles apologetically at Ron before following.

'Don't think we won't be talking about this,' Ron calls to his retreating back, but Harry waves him off. He can already see in Ron's face that he understands.

He knocks softly on Draco's door and waits, anxiety buzzing through him. This was the right thing to do. It needed to be done. Draco shouldn't have to keep hiding himself for a crime he committed so long ago. But he still feels the anxiety, the uncertainty. Every part of Draco's life is so structured, so carefully ordered, and Harry's just ripped that apart.

'It's open,' Draco murmurs and Harry hears it through the door.

He takes a deep breath and twists the handle, stepping inside and pulling it shut.

Draco is standing by the window, looking down into the tangled garden below. He's wearing Markwell's face still and Harry feels a jolt as he wonders what that means. Is Draco still just being cautious, until the formal pardon is delivered?

'Thank you,' Harry says, as he walks across the room. 

Draco turns and there's faint surprise on his face at hearing those words. 'What for?'

'For getting me my job back,' Harry says, moving closer so that he's standing in front of Draco. 'But mostly for trusting me.' He reaches up and cups Draco's face, rubbing a thumb over his cheekbone.

Draco lets out a shaky breath and closes his eyes, slightly leaning into Harry's touch.

'Will you let me see you?' Harry asks, and he knows he's asking more than this. He's asking: _'Do you want to be Draco Malfoy?'_

Draco's eyes open, Markwell's dark ones meeting his, and the look on his face is conflicted. He opens his mouth to say something and then closes it again and looks down, shame spiking in his scent.

Harry rubs his thumb gently across Draco's cheek again and waits. He'll wait forever, to get this right.

After a long moment, Draco speaks, and his voice is barely a whisper.

'I'm afraid.'

Harry brings his other hand up to Draco's face and leans in so their foreheads touch. Draco closes his eyes again and his own hands come up to Harry's arms, but it's to hold him, rather than push him away.

'Being afraid is okay,' Harry says softly, moving to press a kiss to Draco's cheek. 'It's what you do with the fear that matters.'

Draco huffs a laugh and his fingers tighten on Harry's arms. 'When did you get so deep?' he asks, and there is something so open and vulnerable in his voice that Harry replies without thinking.

'Probably about the time I fell in love with you.'

He holds his breath as Draco's eyes fly open, his fingers closing convulsively on Harry's arms. Then Draco reaches into his shirt to touch his wand and the glamour is gone and his fingers slide into Harry's hair. 

Harry catches his breath as Draco pulls him into a kiss that says everything he feels in return.

~

It's two days before the next full moon when Harry takes Draco to visit the Burrow. The weeks in between solving the case and getting to this point have been frantic. Both of them have been bombarded with media and letters and speeches and commendations. It's been overwhelming, and that, combined with the upcoming moon, is putting both Harry and his wolf into overdrive.

He needs to be at the Burrow; to be somewhere he feels safe and surrounded by pack. The thought of not having Draco with him so close to the moon sets his wolf howling and scrabbling inside him, so, despite Draco's reservations, he's going too. He'd argued it was too soon to meet Harry's family. Harry had argued that Draco _is_ his family now. That particular argument had ended with Harry on his knees worshipping Draco's cock until he sobbed and spent his release all over Harry's throat.

Sex seems to be how they solve most of their arguments now.

Draco is nervous before they leave, fidgeting in his very expensive-looking trousers and light blue shirt, clearly wanting to put a tie and jacket on.

'Stop it,' Harry says, coming up behind him and kissing his neck as he meets Draco's eyes in the mirror. 'I told you. You're already too dressed up. You'll be fine. It's not a house for standing on occasion.'

'Easy for you to say,' Draco huffs, reaching behind himself to pluck at Harry's ripped jeans and fitted black v-neck t-shirt. 'You looked like you just rolled out of a skip bin.'

'Liar,' Harry says, nipping Draco's neck with a smile. 'You love the way I look.' He slides his hands down Draco's sides to his hips, holding him still as he rubs himself against Draco's arse.

'Besides,' Harry continues. 'You're wearing one of my skip bin shirts under your flash one.' He buries his face in Draco's neck and breathes him in deeply. 'I can smell it on you,' he growls in pleasure. Draco's taken to wearing Harry's clothes regularly and he doesn't think he'll ever get enough of the way his scent seeps into Draco's skin.

Draco tilts his head to give Harry better access to his neck, his gaze heating in the mirror. There's no shame in the look in his eyes. He knows what he does to Harry and he gets off on it just as much. Harry rumbles his approval and begins to nuzzle the bruises and bitemarks littering Draco's skin, all in various stages of healing. He licks and kisses softly against them, feeling himself begin to harden despite the fact that he'd taken Draco over the back of the couch the moment they'd both walked back in that afternoon.

As Draco pushes back against him, hands dropping to the button of his own trousers, Harry forces himself to stop. He nips hard at Draco's neck and Draco turns his head to look at Harry, his face a picture of innocence.

'You're not going to distract me with sex,' Harry says, trying to sound firm, but unable to stop the rasp in his voice.

'Are you sure?' Draco asks, and his scent strengthens suddenly, arousal thick in the air. Harry can't stop himself from breathing it in as Draco's stance changes, going soft and submissive against him. 'I can be very persuasive,' Draco whispers as he drops a hand behind himself to cup Harry's rapidly hardening cock.

Harry groans into the touch, pushing against Draco's hand for a moment before forcing himself to step back. He pins Draco with a glare that holds no particular heat.

'I'm not an animal to be controlled with a few well-chosen tricks,' Harry says, mock censure in his voice.

Draco just grins and turns, stepping closer again and pulling Harry into a kiss that's deep and filthy. 'Part of you is,' he says, as he breaks the kiss, nipping lightly at Harry's lip, 'and I bet he's particularly keen to play.'

Harry can feel his wolf leaping inside him, pressing forward and practically panting with the need to rub himself all over Draco.

Harry huffs out a laugh. 'Yes, well, as right as you are, we're going to be late, and I want this first meeting to go well.'

At his words, Draco's face loses its teasing heat and he leans forward, kissing Harry again, but lightly this time, an apology in his touch.

'Fine,' he says with a sigh. 'Tonight?'

Harry grins and smacks him on the arse, a sharp slap that Draco groans into. 'If you're good,' he says and Draco pouts.

Harry laughs and pulls him close. He doesn't think he'll ever get enough of this playful, soft side of Draco. 'Come on then,' he says, as he whirls them into Apparition.

They arrive in the front garden of the Burrow and the familiar sights and scents wash over Harry. He closes his eyes and breathes in as he feels Draco step away slightly, straightening his clothes. He doesn't have to look at Draco to know he's wrapping himself in layers of protection and distance. He reaches back, twining his fingers with Draco's and pulling him forward.

Molly greets them at the door and envelops Harry in a hug. He relaxes into her warm embrace, not letting go of his grip on Draco's hand. He's seen her since they finished the case, of course. One of the first things he did was come back here and make sure everyone was alright—let them know he was alright. But this, bringing Draco here to meet them, this feels big.

He steps back and Molly turns to Draco. Draco's fingers tighten in Harry's, but that's his only sign of nervousness. Outwardly his face is still. Calm. Slightly cold.

Then Molly steps forward, gathering him into a hug. Draco's eyes widen in surprise as he meets Harry's gaze over Molly's head. Molly reaches up to tug his neck down so that Draco bends and she's speaking into his ear.

'Thank you,' she says, and her voice is filled with emotion. 'For bringing my boy back to me.'

She speaks quietly, almost a whisper, but Harry hears it clearly. He knows he's supposed to, and he feels something, one of the last pieces of his shame, unfold and twist away. He's known the way he's coped—or not coped— with his change has hurt Molly. Her scent is always edged with a bitter worry that she can't hide. He realises that's what's different. That's what he couldn't put his finger on last time he saw her.

He hadn't realised he was wearing his happiness so transparently, but as Draco looks up and meets Harry's eyes, Harry feels himself glow with the strength of his love.

 _Oh,_ he thinks, in contented surprise. It feels right to know that, for once, everyone can read him as well as he can read them. This, he wants known.


	12. Chapter 12

_Three months later_

Harry feels the full moon buzzing under his skin when he Floos back to Grimmauld Place. It's tonight. Soon. He hasn't taken his potion yet. Draco had asked him not to, when Harry left for work that morning. The fact that he hasn't makes him uneasy, but it's in his pocket. He pats it reassuringly.

His wolf whines inside him at the thought of being trapped during the moon.

 _I'm sorry,_ Harry tells him. _I know it's not fair to you, but it's just too dangerous._ His wolf whines again and Harry feels a tug of sympathy in his chest. He thinks about the night to come—the pain of the aborted shift, his body constantly twisting and breaking and trying to change. He can feel the ache in his bones already and he pushes it away. He can't think about that. He just has to take the potion and let it happen.

He stills as he hears a movement upstairs and smiles as he recognises Draco's footsteps. It's rare that Draco is home before him. Even when Draco had been working with him in the Ministry for a bit, consulting to wrap up the child smuggling case, he'd managed to fit in an after-work excursion of some kind most days. He'd been particularly distracted the last month, staying out a few nights each week and coming home smelling of the strange blankness that scent-blockers caused. 

It had bothered him to start with, Draco's secrecy, the fact that he kept hiding, kept disappearing, even though his name was cleared now and he was free to return to society as himself. Draco had explained it simply, when Harry had asked him. He lives for the work he does as Veritas, the same way Harry does as an Auror. After that it was easy. Harry makes sure that when Draco comes home to him, he makes every second count.

Now the thought that Draco is up there in their room speeds his footsteps. It's still a few hours until the moon. He remembers Draco that morning, riding him slowly, teasing him as he took his pleasure from Harry's cock. He feels himself thicken at the memory. He doesn't think he'll ever get enough of Draco. They won't have time to go out for dinner tonight, but maybe they can tomorrow, once the moon has passed and Harry has a bit of his energy back. Harry knows Draco hates watching him in pain during the moon, so maybe they can do something nice to help him forget it.

He pushes open the bedroom door to see Draco in front of the mirror wearing a pair of Harry's combat pants and heavy boots, resized to fit his slimmer form. He has a heavy jacket on that Harry recognises as his as well.

Harry looks him up and down, curiosity and a faint wariness entering his stance. 'What are you all dressed up for?' he asks, crossing the room to stand behind Draco. He presses a kiss to Draco's neck and then rubs his cheek there. Draco still smells of him from this morning, but it's faded, layered over with traces of the other places he's been today. No scent blockers this time, just the smell of something woodsy about him, soil and pine. 

'I hardly think this qualifies as dressing up,' Draco says with a scoff, while leaning back into Harry's embrace.

'Fine,' Harry says as he licks his way up Draco's neck, latching onto his ear and biting down lightly. 'Why are you wearing my terrible, unfashionable, plebeian clothes?'

Draco smiles at him in the mirror and there's something light and excited about his eyes. 'I have something to show you,' he says, stepping out of Harry's arms and pointing at his closet. 'Get changed.'

Harry looks at him and frowns, fingers slipping to the vial in his pocket. 'I'd love to, but the moon is only a few hours away. I haven't taken my potion yet, and we don't really have time to—'

Draco steps closer, bringing a hand up to cup Harry's cheek. 'Trust me?' he asks, his eyes earnest. 'We have time. I promise you. Get changed and I'll take us straight there.'

Harry wavers a second more, but he can't resist Draco, and the call of the moon is sparking in his blood, daring him to be reckless and free.

'Fine,' he says, lifting his hands to the buttons of his Auror robes. He strips out of them quickly and pulls on a tight grey top and a pair of jeans. It's cold out but his blood is running hot and he's been sweltering in his robes all day. He loves being back in the Ministry and in his team, but having to hide what he is every day is wearing. Sometimes he just wishes he could be himself. But he knows that's not how the world works.

'Ready?' Draco asks, offering him an arm and breaking Harry out of his thoughts.

Harry makes a face at the Apparition, but steps close and wraps his arms around Draco, nuzzling into his neck.

'You're going to get us splinched one of these days,' Draco laughs as he whirls them out of the room.

When they land they're in the forest that Draco had smelt like and Harry looks around, stepping back, all of his senses on high alert. He can't smell or hear anyone except them. In the distance a herd of deer are walking and the sounds of birds going to sleep are everywhere, but he can't sense any other human life.

'Where are we?' he asks, turning his attention back to Draco.

'An old family property,' Draco says with a shrug. 'It's twenty acres. Forest mostly.'

'And why are we here?' Harry asks, looking up at the sky and feeling the tension begin to rise in himself. He touches the bottle in his pocket again, soothing his wolf, who wants to gaze at the sky until the moon is all they can see.

'I can't watch you force yourself out of a shift again,' Draco says, and though his voice is calm and reasonable, Harry can see the tension in his body and smell the pain that spikes through his scent. 'It's not good for you and it's not good for your wolf.'

Harry frowns, shaking his head before Draco's finished speaking. 'We've talked about this before. I _can't_. It's too dangerous. Even with the way I understand that part of myself better, I still have no control when I'm in that form. I could kill someone before I realise what I'm doing.'

Draco shakes his head in turn. 'This property is warded from all external visitors. And I've been over the wards and strengthened them, adding repellents.'

'No,' Harry says, feeling frustration rising in him. 'I can still get _out_. I'm not shifting.' He crosses his arms over his chest, feeling the small bottle and glancing back up at the sky. He's got about ten minutes left to take it before the moon will be strong enough to have an effect on him. He'll be able to fight it off a while longer, but without the potion the shift will be inevitable.

'I'm not an idiot,' Draco says, rolling his eyes. 'I've built your signature into the wards. They're designed to keep you _in_ now, or your wolf, at any rate. I asked Weasley how he did the ones at Grimmauld Place and replicated that.'

Harry scowls. 'Ron didn't tell me you'd been working on this.'

Draco rolls his eyes. 'Yes, well, it was supposed to be a surprise. Hermione wanted to come and watch you run, but I told her that was probably a little risky at this point.'

'Hermione knows?' Harry asks, feeling something in him relax an inch at the thought of that.

Draco huffs a sigh. 'Of course she does. Bloody woman is so perceptive it scares me. She was asking me about treatment of house-elves and how it's improved since the recent medical reform bills the other day. I swear she's starting to make connections.'

Harry pulls the bottle of his suppressant potion from his pocket and Draco breaks himself out of his tangent. He steps forward, placing his hands on top of Harry's, covering the bottle.

'Please don't,' he asks, and his face is suddenly serious. 'This place is safe. I promise you. You can run here. I won't let you hurt anyone.'

Harry looks around, listening to the sounds of the forest as it wakes up for the night and the idea of it—the thought of being able to run and to smell and to just be himself in that primal way tugs at him. He wants to give in to it, wants to take the gift Draco is offering.

But then the second half of what Draco just said hits him and it's like a bucket of iced water has been poured over him.

'What do you mean you won't let me hurt anyone?' Harry asks. 'If I do this, you can't stay.' He's aware his voice is rising. He can feel anxiety unspool within him. He remembers the time he shifted in front of Draco; the time he almost assaulted him. His wolf is too instinct-driven. Harry _knows_ he won't be able to control his needs. He knows, deep down, there is a part of him that wants Draco in that form, wants him in all ways. It fills him with shame and there's not a chance he's going to let Draco put himself at risk like that.

But Draco doesn't argue with him. Instead he steps back, releasing Harry's hands.

'That's the other part of the surprise,' he says with a grin

Harry glances at the potion bottle and then clenches it tightly in his fist. He'll give Draco just a minute more. He wants to run. Now that the thought of it is in his blood, he wants to shift and feel the forest under his feet, to roam and run and hunt through it. His wolf is practically quivering with excitement at the thought of it. But he won't put Draco at risk. He'll take the suppressants every day of his life before he'll put Draco at risk.

Draco reaches inside his pocket for his wand and he holds it lightly as he starts to speak. 'I've had some very interesting conversations with Bill Weasley over the last few months,' he says and his tone is light. 

Harry makes an impatient move forward. He wonders if he can _make_ Draco Apparate away.

'He's told me all sorts of stories about our old Defence teacher, Professor Lupin.'

Harry's gaze sharpens and he freezes at those words. He spares a second to wonder why Draco's mentioning Remus now, of all times.

'You haven't told me much about him,' Draco says. 'Bill says your dad and my mum's cousin used to help him, back in school.' He doesn't pause for Harry's response and Harry looks at him more closely as he wonders where this is going. A glimmer of hope flickers to life in his chest. 

_Surely not?_

'Turns out becoming an Animagus is bloody hard,' Draco says, with a laugh. 'I wanted to run with you, though.'

With those words he flicks his wand and Harry watches, shock and awe and love tangling inside him as Draco begins to shrink and blur.

It's a few short seconds before Draco is fully transformed. In front of Harry, sitting on the ground with his head tilted to one side enquiringly, is a pure white Arctic Fox. His eyes are silver and full of mischief as he yips at Harry.

Harry feels his wolf respond immediately, pressing forward, practically _bouncing_ inside him in his need to escape, to play and run and hunt with Draco.

The perfection of it overwhelms him and Harry sinks to his knees, feeling a sob catch in his throat. Draco approaches immediately, rubbing soft white fur against him as he nuzzles his head into Harry's neck to comfort him.

'You beautiful, perfect man,' Harry says, as he lets the bottle drop to the ground, heedless of the way it spills, soaking into the earth. He brings his hands up to bury them in the ruff of Draco's fur, and looks him in the eyes.

'I love you,' he says, his voice thick with emotion. 'So much.'

Draco nuzzles against Harry's face again and then wiggles out of his grip, bouncing back a few paces and stretching out, so his nose is near the ground and his tail is high in the air. The invitation to come and run is clear and Harry can't resist it anymore.

He stands again, slipping his clothes off and piling them loosely on the end of a log. Then he looks up into the sky and smiles as he lets the moon take him.

~

They're sitting in bed one day, a few months later, when the paper comes. It's a rare Sunday morning when Harry's not on a shift. Draco's been around the past week, almost to the point where Harry's considering asking him if everything is okay. They've been living together for the past five months and he doesn't think he's had Draco home four days in a row in that entire time.

But as the paper floats from the Floo up the stairs to them, Harry gets a strange feeling Draco's absences and subsequent reappearances are about to be explained. He's gone still, and his heartbeat has accelerated. He's very deliberately focusing on the slices of mandarin he's peeling one by one to put into his yoghurt.

Normally, when the paper comes in and Draco is home, he pulls it from Harry's hands, flipping through it, disparaging remarks about every element of the coverage falling from his lips. Harry and Ron have started a game, tallying the number of times Draco can catch himself before swearing in front of Rose. Draco has almost gotten them uninvited from Saturday brunch more than once.

But this morning he glances at the paper, and then away. Harry sends him a sideways glance as he pulls it from the air and flicks it open. Then he stops, breath catching as he takes in the massive headline splashed across the front page.

_WEREWOLVES: THE TERROR WE CREATED_

He looks across at Draco, whose cheeks are faintly pink.

'What—' he clears his throat and glances down, seeing Draco's familiar by-line. He's tracked back through Draco's whole career, digging out every story published under the name Veritas and pouring over them. Every time he does he can't quite believe Draco is his now.

Harry shakes off the thought as his eyes are drawn into the first few words and he begins to read.

_She's scared. Hungry. Alone. She used to be someone: a bright, happy young woman. She wanted to be a dressmaker; she was looking into an apprenticeship. She had a girl she liked._

_And then she was bitten, and everything changed._

Harry looks at the picture of a beautiful young witch, dancing in a pub, her eyes shining with love and life as she twirls. The picture pulls at him, reminding him of the young woman who'd bitten him. Who'd died for it. He returns his gaze to the article.

 _The man who bit her was a father. He had two beautiful little boys, and worked as a clockmaker, making the most magical of clocks, just to see his boys smile._

_But then he was bitten and everything changed._

The next picture is of a bearded wizard throwing his head back and laughing as the child on his lap jumps in surprise when his clock transfigures into a dragon and puffs smoke into his face. The image is one of such joyous love that it pulls at something in Harry's chest. He touches it and thinks for a moment of Teddy, and all the happiness he won't get to have.

Beside him, Draco is still, all pretence of eating his breakfast gone. Harry can feel his eyes and he takes a breath, continuing to read.

She's _forced onto the streets. No one will treat her wounds. Luckily the bite is on her arm, and she survives it._

He's _forced out of his home, has to leave his children behind. They don't understand why. They still cry in the night. They don't know that daddy will never come home._

_Sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers, colleagues, lovers, friends._

_Every one of them with a life, spooling out before them, a world of possibilities… until the moment the jaws close around them and_ we _take everything away._

Harry looks across at Draco, his breath catching in his throat.

'You didn't,' he whispers.

'I did,' Draco confirms and his voice is steady, determined. 'We need to see our shame. We need to name it and face it.'

Harry feels a surge of emotion. It's pride and love and amazement and a million other things mixed up inside him. He turns back to the article, scanning it more quickly now as he flips through the pages.

It's a six page spread exposing every single way werewolves are persecuted, victimised and set up to fail—set up to die.

'Fucking hell,' Harry murmurs, as he reads. He feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes, to see his own life unspooled before him in the stories of others. He feels laid bare with it, but also protected, held and comforted. 'You've done it.'

And Draco has. The article is perfect. There's not a letter of it that's not respectful to the victims—to the dead that each new moon brings. Instead, the article shows again and again the humans behind the wolves, and the things—so many simple, simple things, that could stop the carnage. If only there was a will.

When he's done, Harry smooths the paper out and lays it on the bed in front of him. He stares at it for a long moment, his fingers tracing over the pictures on the front page.

He can't even describe the multitude of emotions inside himself. He feels paralysed with them. Then Draco's hands are on him as he pulls Harry back onto his chest, wrapping strong arms around him and holding him tight. Draco understands what Harry doesn't have the words to say. He always has.

Harry sits in bed with the possibility of a new future in front of him and Draco holds him as he cries.

~

_Eighteen months later_

'We are here today to launch the new _Werewolf Rights Act_.' An enhanced version of the Minister's voice booms out over the packed Ministry atrium. There is a flurry of clicking as cameras flash, the reporters' seats a buzz of action.

'This act is the culmination of almost two years of intensive advocacy, public campaigning, and the development of the new werewolf rights group,' Shacklebolt continues. 'Ms Hermione Granger will be speaking on that later, alongside Simon Jordyn, werewolf rights spokesman.'

Applause starts up and the Minister waits until it's completed. 'But first,' he says, 'we will hear from a special guest, who is adding his support to this very important piece of legislation.'

Harry steps up to the podium and takes a deep breath as he looks out at the assembled crowd. His nerves are buzzing and he feels his wolf pacing restlessly. He can hear the other crowd outside the Ministry doors, the protestors, the families of those taken by the wolves. Their mood is ugly. Angry. He tries to block them out. Draco had known, when he'd written the article so long ago, that it wouldn't be an easy road. To be here at all was a miracle.

He can smell other wolves in the crowd as well. He can't tell how many or where they are, with so many people in close proximity, but the fact that they're here at all, that they feel safe to gather at an event like this, is something he doesn't think he could have imagined, even a few months ago.

Harry lets his gaze flick over the crowd, until it comes to rest on Draco. Harry looks at him, sitting in the front row with Hermione, Ron, and the whole Weasley family spread out on either side of him. 

Certainty and pride shine from every line of Draco's body and Harry focuses on him, drawing strength from him. Draco gives him a smile and Harry closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.

When he opens them, he scans across the crowd one more time, taking them all in, speaking to every one of them.

'My name is Harry Potter,' he says. 'And three years ago, I was bitten.'

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> Life's a bit crazy lately and I'm very behind on replying to comments, but I promise I still read and love every one, if you'd like to leave one 😊
> 
> Otherwise jump into my messages on Tumblr and say hi. I'd love to have a chat with you about the story. My name's quicksilvermaid on there too.
> 
> Also, please check out this amazing art for the story, which I die over every time I see it:  
> 
> 
>   
>  [junk-ren's depiction of their first meeting](https://creeeee.tumblr.com/post/613596253411065856/quicksilvermaid-junk-ren-from-this-i-like)   
>    
> 
> 
>   
> [Creeee's art of Draco and Harry hanging out in the apartment](https://creeeee.tumblr.com/post/611960309360525312/a-gift-for-quicksilvermaid-commissioned)  
>   
> 
> 
>   
> [zigster's vision of Harry and his wolf](https://creeeee.tumblr.com/post/612664241194926080/zigster-ao3-bounces-im-really-proud-of-this)  
> 
> 
> Thanks again!  
> Q

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Classics Cover: Who We Are in the Shadows](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25318825) by [zeziliazink_art (zeziliazink)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeziliazink/pseuds/zeziliazink_art)
  * [Who we are in the shadows [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28467960) by [Sandstripe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandstripe/pseuds/Sandstripe)




End file.
